


The Heartless Murder of Christopher Drawlight

by AlexSimon



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, Detective Noir, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4680401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSimon/pseuds/AlexSimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired in part by the modern AU, Serial Killer!Lascelles & Detective!Childermass gif set I saw a while back on tumblr.<br/>Basically, it's the 50s.  Christopher Drawlight has been murdered and John Childermass is secretly investigating the case, partly with the help of John Segundus.<br/>(Please do not judge me on my inability to write enticing summaries!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reluctant Musician

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what to do with this story from here, but I do plan on continuing.

The man’s name was Christopher Drawlight, or had been, and he was apparently much older than he looked even after lying in the wood for several weeks before he was found. He had black hair and soft white skin and was small, very small, thin and short but well shaped. His most prominent feature had been large dark eyes and thick eye lashes, but currently a portion of one of his legs and a part of his once pretty face were blown out, casualties of two heartless shots to his small body. Not many people knew that. Not many people had been told because not many had asked about the fate of the man named Christopher, dead in the wood.

The search of his apartment found little in the way of evidence or little of much else. Christopher Drawlight had been poor, not that anyone would ever have been able to tell by looking at him. The furniture was old and did not fill up the room or even begin to. His closet was sparsely filled with articles bought many years ago and kept meticulously maintained. The police did their investigation of his rooms at one time, and John Childermass did his at another, less respectable one and in secret.

Mr Childernass had a feeling that even though Christopher Drawlight’s life may not have held much meaning that his death certainly did.

When John Childermass investigated further, he found that Mr Drawlight had a series of four half sisters, the children of a man named Dale Frogge who was his mother's second husband after, as Mr Childermass found out, the unexpected death of her first when Drawlight was a toddler. 

Three of the sisters, modest-living and respectable women, all displayed a great love of tidiness but very little for their mother's only son when Mr Childermass tried to speak to them. Except, that was, for the youngest. She was barely eighteen but already married and if John Childermass wasn't mistaken, expecting. 

This sister had a small pre-fabricated house decorated enthusiastically but with little tact and a burly husband who beamed at her constantly. She wore high heels that she stumbled in a bit, and had a large, slightly dry looking blonde hairstyle but a sweet heart-shaped face. Mr Childermass could not help but notice that her eyes were just the same as her brother’s had been.

This girl's name was Marianne and she was, so far, the only one to cry at the death of Christopher Drawlight. The burly husband patted her knee as they sat together on a puffy flowered sofa. 

"Were you his friend?" asked Marianne. The burly husband frowned for the first time. He knew his brother-in-law had no real friends, but he only continued to pat his wife's knee gently in deference to her fantasy that he might have. 

"I can't say we were close," said John Childermass with care. He did not like thought of upsetting a young, pregnant girl. "But I knew him. We…worked together, in a fashion. For a time.” 

“Oh. Are you a musician? At the club where he worked?”

Mr Childermass and the burly husband exchange glances. A smirk nearly came to his face and would have if the girl had not looked so eager to believe her brother’s story of a job.

“Yes,” said Mr Childermass. “But…I had not been there long when he disappeared.”

“A lovely voice though, hadn’t he?”

This was nearly too much for John Childermass. He just managed to keep himself from letting loose an exhausted sigh. 

“Very,” he said. “I only wish we had gotten to work together more.”

Marianne nodded to herself and refilled the tea cups. A necklace of cheap glass beads dangled from her neck as she leaned forward.

"Well, at least you're doing something,” she said “At least you're here.”

John Childermass was under no obligation to do so since his capacity here was not official, but he felt sorry for Marianne and had a feeling her older sisters had not told her, so he told the girl where her brother’s body was being held. She clutched his hand briefly in a spontaneous moment of thanks. Her hands were the size of a child’s. 

Before he left, the burly husband took John Childermass aside. 

"It’s not fair, how the others did Christopher," he said softly. He kept an eye on his wife who was in the kitchen washing up the tea dishes. 

"The others?" 

"The lot of bitches our Marianne calls sisters."

"I see,” said John Childermass as he buttoned up his coat. 

"He wasn't all bad, now was he? Always in dire straits one way or the other. That'll mess with anyone. Make a person desperate." 

"I would imagine." 

"Imagine?" The burly husband regarded him with not unkind amusement. "With that accent, you’re not rich yourself, I’d wager.”

John Childermass raised an eyebrow. He reached into the pocket of his coat for his gloves and the burly husband squirmed under Mr Childermass’ lazy scrutiny. He coughed to himself and spoke again

"What I mean to say is; Marianne had a soft spot for Chris-“

John Childermass could not keep the expression of surprise off his face at hearing Mr Drawlight called this nickname. The burly husband stopped speaking suddenly when he saw.

"Nothing," said Mr Childermass. "I just only ever knew him as something distinctly other than a...Chris."

"Well, like I said. Marianne had tender heart for him, so I did too. He could tell a joke, Chris could. Always make our Marianne laugh. He was over straight away when Marianne told him the news that we were expecting, happy as a clam for us. The lot of bitches didn't care, I can tell you that. They thought Marianne married beneath herself." The burly husband rubbed his beard. "I helped Chris when I could."

"Of course you did," said John Childermass, now putting a hat over his black hair.

"The others never did. Wouldn't open their doors to him. But I tried. Not that I could do much. He was in deep, Chris was."

At home, John Segundus fretted over all of this when his friend John Childermass told him over dinner. His hair was still parted severely to the side from work, something that was supposed to make him look more like a headmaster, but actually did very little to make his kind face look anything approaching menacing or take away its natural youthfulness. As Mr Childermass talked, Mr Segundus’ eyes widened and his hand shook a bit as he set his fork down. He pushed his plate away and looked quickly from Mr Childermass when he stopped talking to study him.

"You did not like Christopher Drawlight either," Mr Childermass reminded Mr Segundus, leaning back in his chair. 

"That's not exactly true,” Mr Segundus protested weakly. He sighed to himself as he fidgeted a bit, assessing his argument. “We had nothing in common. We did not know each other, really." 

"But what you knew of him, you did not like." 

"I cannot deny that. But to meet his end like that-"

"I shouldn't have told you."

Mr Segundus waved dismissively at Mr Childermass.  
"I thought you were long beyond molly coddling me like that," he said. 

Mr Childermas shrugged with a smile. 

"I can see on your face," said Mr Segundus. "That you agree with me. That poor girl today got to you."

Mr Childermass drummed his fingers on the table and eventually nodded his head.  
"She did. And the other sisters, too. Terrible women. Makes me almost glad I don't have any. Sisters, that is. Not terrible women.”

Mr Segundus made a face as if to say this was not a time for jokes and Mr Childermass thought to himself for a moment, rubbing his chin. 

"Do you know what else I found?” he asked. “The parents, Drawlight’s parents, were actors. Well, cabaret performers. The father died in a fire at the theatre where they performed."

"Oh dear," said Mr Segundus. His shoulders slumped forward.

"The mother reinvented herself-“

"A family trait, I suppose." 

"And she was soon a shop girl and then-" Mr Childermass motioned with his hand.

"A shop owner's wife?" 

"Precisely. She died in childbirth when Drawlight was only fifteen. The stepfather put him out nearly before the funeral was over. Drawlight sent presents to his sisters and sometimes, when the smallest daughter asked, he would get invited over for family celebrations. That I found out today, from the girl herself.”

"Will we hear of nothing happy in his life?" asked Mr Segundus with his hand at his temple. 

Mr Childermass regarded his friend’s crestfallen face for a while before speaking again.  
“Well, there’s this. His parents, it seems, were quite happy, very much in love, and very pleased with their little son. They led an odd sort of life in the theatre, to be sure, but up until his second year of life, Christopher Drawlight was very much loved.”

Mr Segundus gave a heavy sigh. 

The night was cold and they cleaned up the table quickly so they could read and work in the comfort of their room. Mr Segundus sat at the desk marking papers and Mr Childermass was in the bed, scribbling into a notebook. A flimsy radio next to Mr Segundus played softly. When it got late, Mr Segundus took off his sweater and his trousers, hung them neatly on the back of the chair, and went into next to Mr Childermass. They turned off the bedside lamp and settled in under the covers. 

"You’ll be leaving early?" asked Mr Segundus after several minutes. He knew the other man was not yet asleep. 

"Will I?"

"Stop that. I know where you're going. You're going to find the only person who could have done this. You're going to find Henry Lascelles."

**********

Some time before sunrise, John Segundus awoke to a noise in the room, which was John Childermass dressing with no care to the noise he made. 

“What time is it?” he asked. 

“Early,” said Mr Childermass. “But you knew I was leaving at an ungodly hour. It was the last thing you said to me yesterday.”

Mr Segundus rubbed his eyes and rolled over onto his side, facing Mr Childermass, who was pulling on his shirt.

“I did say that. Thank you for reminding me. But you didn’t think to be quiet?” 

“Why would I do that? I wanted to wake you.”

John Segudus groaned and sat up. 

“Why did you want to wake me?”

“So that you could come with me.”

”Of course…”

John Segundus pushed back the covers of the bed and put his feet on the floor. 

“Is there any particular reason?” he asked, switching the bedside lamp on.

“I need to talk to someone today and I would like you to help me. No one objects to you and that will help me immensely today.”

“John!” Mr Segundus jumped from the bed. Mr Childermass was walking to the closet for a suitcase and Mr Segundus followed him. “I know who you mean. You really shouldn’t. I can tell you that this is not a good idea.”

“Arabella Strange may know something. Her husband spoke to Drawlight before his death and gave him the messages that killed him. Who knows what Strange left behind before he went to Venice? I have to ask.”

“Oh John…” Mr Segundus ran his hands nervously through his hair. “I am going on record as opposing this. Vehemently.” 

“I knew you would. That’s why I asked you. I don’t want to upset her or Emma any more than you do. Your presence will make this easier on everyone.”

They looked at each other for several moments and then John Segundus turned to go and change his clothes. Childermass put the open suitcase on the bed and began to put in clothes as Segundus undressed. 

“How long will we be gone?” 

“Depends,” said Childermass. “If we find something useful, I hope to follow it.”

“I thought Vinculus was your lead for returning Strange and Norrell home.” 

“I can have more than one lead.” 

“John, really,” Segundus mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. 

“I assume that was for me.” 

“Yes.” 

Segundus felt a hand on his bare shoulder, then a kiss to his neck and arms encircled his stomach, which, like the rest of him, was bare. 

“Thank you,” said Childermass. 

“Well, who knows what trouble you’ll get into without me. People are always shooting you and cutting up your face. The school is in good hands, for a few days at least.”

Mr Childermass released him after another kiss, this one to his shoulder.  


Before the sun was up, they had put the suitcase in the car and were driving away.


	2. The Man in the Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit about the early life of Christopher Drawlight (as imagined by me, your humble writer of this fic).

Christopher Drawlight would not remember the days immediately following his young father's death, or indeed the years after, since he had been so young when it happened. 

Sometimes he thought he might recall a dimly lit room in a house that always seemed a bit cold. He thought sometimes that he remembered sharing a single small bed there with his young mother, maybe her crying from time to time when she thought he was asleep. He even thought that he remembered sometimes the quilt on that bed, faded and soft on his skin. 

Christopher was never sure if they were true memories or not, when he thought of the room and the house and the grimy little window and the rusty sink in the corner where he had his face washed by small, white hands. He had been accused throughout his life of difficulty in understanding the line between fact and fiction, or of disregarding it completely. He wanted to think the memories were true, because they were of him and his mother, just the two of them, but no one could or would tell him anything about what things had been like before his mother remarried. He was only two when his father died and by the time he could reliably remember anything at all, he and his mother lived in a new house and with Mr. Frogge and he had a baby sister named Patience and there was another baby on the way.

He knew that there was no chance that he remembered anything before that and his mother never spoke of her life with Daniel Drawlight after she was Mrs. Frogge. Though he wanted to know very much what that time had been like and what his father had been like, he never asked because even more than knowing, he wanted to see his mother happy. Even more than that, he wanted his stepfather to not scowl at him, and he knew those questions would warrant a scowl. 

He especially never asked about the picture he once found, a picture he never saw again because it was hidden too well after the one time he managed a secret look. It was a small picture of a handsome man, only a picture of his face and chest, but he seemed tall. The handsome man had a thin face with strong cheekbones. His hair was graying a bit, but his skin was unlined and very pale. Christopher knew it was father even though the resemblance between them was not strong or even apparent at all. Christopher Drawlight looked like his mother in every way possible. 

He knew that this resemblance was this was an advantage as a child. If Christopher had walked around every day with the face of his wife's first husband, Mr. Frogge would have lost patience much more quickly than he had. As it was, when Dale Frogge's looked at his stepson, he saw only his beloved Rosie's face, her dark hair, and more than anything her eyes. It was that which earned Christopher any love or grace he ever got from the man, and he was not ungrateful for the twist of fate which had ensured his father's traits never made it to him. He could turn his stepfather’s anger at any infraction into nothing more than sputtering, mild annoyance by just looking like did. 

Christopher did not remember the man in the picture he had once found or life with him, but his mother did. 

She remembered telling her lovely Danny that she was going to have a baby on a day in fall when the leaves were red and the breeze on her cheeks and hands was a tingle. The two of them got married the very next day. They had been an act for a year by then, him on piano and her dancing, and sweethearts for nearly that long. Rose remembered when their son was born early the next summer, hardly weighing anything and most of that a head of dark hair. Christopher would never know that as an infant he was passed around while a group of young women in fishnet stockings fawned over him, or that he slept peacefully on a blanket in a dressing room many nights. 

She remembered what felt like, even years after her Danny was gone, countless mornings waking up next to him, of what felt like countless nights with her head on a pillow next to his and his sweet voice singing her and their perfect baby to sleep. Bu they hadn't been countless, in fact. The number had not even been all that large, considering that from the day of their marriage to the day of his death that Danny and Rose had only been married a little more than two years. 

She had been a girl then, she would think later, made dizzy by a handsome man's hands and kisses and too filled with love to even feel tired.

Christopher did not remember the fire that hit two years later, of course, or that it was only luck that he hadn't been orphaned completely on the night. It was Christopher that saved his mother by being too sick for her to perform the night the fire went through the theater where Daniel Drawlight was playing piano. He would never know the sooty face of Danny's best friend coming to the apartment just before sunrise, the black residue of the fire streaked by tears he didn't try to hide, or the look on his mother's face as she stood watching him and listening to the news that her husband was dead. She collapsed as she listened and her nightshirt had soot on the arms from where he bent down to hold her. 

The rent was already paid up for the next two weeks, so Rose didn't have to worry about that at least as she buried her husband with help from their friends at the theater, all as poor as she. Rose got good and drunk that day and fell into an empty deep stupor and she would remember forever her son's wails from his crib when they finally cut through and woke her. It was the last time she did that. 

Rose Drawlight, only halfway through her twenty first year of life, loved her son. Everything else was indifferent to after her husband died, at least until she had her daughters. 

She never danced again, or even went back to the theater. She spent the last two weeks in the room she and Danny had shared with their son ripping out seams and sewing her old dancer’s wardrobe into something plain, something with long skirts and necklines up to her throat. 

When she was done, she put her hair up in the dullest fashion she could think of. She rode on the bus to the most respectable part of town she could imagine and walked into the first shop she saw. A middle aged man, twenty years her senior, was behind the counter. His hair was sandy, as were his large mustache and expansive eyebrows. He was spindly but for a slight gut. He was not tall like Danny had been, but most people were quite tall next to Mrs. Drawlight, which was how she introduced herself. 

He loved the delicate woman with the milky skin and black hair from the moment she walked in. Her eyes, which were dark brown and large and on many people would have seemed pretty enough but fairly ordinary, were her best feature. Common brown should not have been so enchanting, but the brown of Mrs. Drawlight's eyes was a special color and managed to both shine like something polished and give the impression of moving in the light, like ink spreading over paper. She left with a job, thinking how easy that part had been after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter of this story. You're awesome. And if you stuck though to the second, even better! You're my hero!  
> This isn't much of a John Squared fic, I know. I intend to fix that, but as much as it's about that, I am writing this to flesh out a Drawlight backstory and fulfill my silly AU thoughts. I got this bit down and it feels all sort of squished together to me and I could easily expand this into separate, much longer chapters eventually.  
> Thanks for your time and patience.  
> If you feel something doesn't work, or does, I would love to hear.


	3. The Widower's Stepson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher says goodbye to his family and tries to make a way for himself.

Christopher's last day in his stepfather’s house was the one after his mother's funeral. 

He didn't hold it against his stepfather for asking him to leave, if he was honest. Mr. Frogge had five daughters now, the youngest only a week old. Another mouth to feed, one not even of his blood, was a lot to handle. It was especially hard to handle, Christopher accepted, if that mouth was attached to someone as fairly useless and lazy as he happened to be. It had become apparent as he grew that there was no occupation for which Christopher was especially suited and that school was no place for him either. His leaving had always been nothing more than a matter of time. 

Before the sun was up he went as quietly as he could into the room where his sisters all slept. Patience was ten now, five years younger than he was, and helped with little Marianne, who slept in a crib next to her bed. Marianne was the only of his sisters to look like their mother, like he did, and he had taken a special liking to her from the day the midwife brought her out into the living room to show them, even if her coming into the world had taken their lovely mother out of it. The midwife had had tears streaming down her face as she handed him the baby and his sisters gathered around him. Though the baby was quiet, Mr Frogge was crying loudly from the bedroom where his wife was laying unresponsive, her cheeks loosing quickly the flush of childbirth. 

The baby was asleep when Christopher came in on his last morning and he leaned down and gave her a small kiss on the forehead that didn't wake her. 

"Go away, Christopher," said a voice from next to him. 

He looked down and the oldest of his sisters was watching him from her bed. When he was feeling unkind, he called the color of her hair dishwater. The last week had been sunny and she should have been outside playing, bringing out the prettier color of her light hair, but she had been inside with the baby, inside with guests saying goodbye to her mother. 

"Shut up, please, Patsy." 

"I'm telling Pop you said that," said the girl with a yawn

"You do that. I doubt he'll care much what I do at this point." 

Patience glared at Christopher and shifted to bury her face under her pillow. Christopher turned back to give the baby another look, in case it ended up being his last chance. It was time now. He turned from the crib and left and he did, he saw his oldest sister leaning over the crib where his youngest was still undisturbed. 

Outside the door, Christopher picked up the bag he had packed and saw that Mr. Frogge was waiting for him in the living room. He looked like he had barely slept the night before, which made Christopher wonder why he didn't take the baby himself instead of making Patsy watch her, if he was already awake.

Dale Frogge had aged years in the week since his beautiful young wife had died and his face was a commingling of ashen skin and chapped features all slouching together. His hairy arms were crossed and he was shifting from one foot to the next as he waited for his stepson to emerge. 

"Where are you going to go?" he asked Christopher the moment he saw him. 

"Don't really know yet." 

"Do you have a plan, boy?" 

"I do, but you won't like it."

Mr Frogge developed two rosy spots in his cheeks staring at his stepson. 

"Your mother-" he started to say. 

"I know. I know. She loved me, I broke her heart, I am doing this to myself." 

Mr Frogge had strong words for the boy, but made the mistake of looking up and meeting Christopher's eyes, of looking at the delicate, pale face so much like his wife’s. His shoulders slumped forward as he thought of all the love that Rosie had had for the boy. 

"This was your idea, remember," said Christopher quietly. "I never really had to leave." 

"I can't-" 

"I understand. I really do." 

"Will you let me finish a sentence, Chris? I am trying to tell you..." 

Now that Christopher was finally quiet, Mr Frogge found what he had been waiting to say was too difficult. He rubbed his eyes and looked away from the boy, who was still staring at him. 

"You loved her," Christopher said. "You tried to make the best of having me around for her sake, but she's gone and now you have the girls to think of. Like I said, I understand." 

Mr Frogge sighed and Christopher followed suit. 

"Get a nanny, or something," he said as he reached for the door. "For the baby. Patsy can't do this. You either." 

He waited to see if his stepfather had anything else to say, but the man was back to shifting his feet and scratching at his nearly bald head. Mr Frogge looked up one last time at his stepson. 

“Don’t ask me to tell you that she would be okay with this. I might be, but she never would have.” 

"Christopher." 

Christopher Drawlight did not know what it was that came over him in that moment as he stood with his hand on the doorknob, watching his stepfather shuffle away from him, but he felt, as he sometimes did, mean and and able to hold back words he knew he should. 

"It's because I was her favorite, isn't it? It's because she always loved me best. That's why I have to go, right?" 

Mr. Frogge turned halfway back to his stepson, a defeated look his on face, but the front door was already open and Christopher half outside. 

He stepped out the door into the warming morning. It was going to be a beautiful summer day. 

The first part of Christopher's plan was finding a school friend to say with while the rest fell into place. He had a friend called David whose mother loved him, so he went there first, where he found Mrs. Flowers with her hair in curls and her fingernails wet with varnish, thankfully alone. She was glad to have Christopher and told him many times over the course of the afternoon how sad she was about his darling young mother. David was less thrilled to have Christopher over, but he was not part of the plan, so Christopher didn’t care. He made a bed on the sofa that night and he and Mrs. Flowers played cards and listened to the radio until after it was very late and she let him sleep through breakfast the next morning because he was a poor lamb without a mother. After he eventually woke, he set out.

People had always said things about Christopher, often to his face and in school, sometimes while trying to punch or kick him. He hadn't thought a lot about if they were true or not until now, when he thought on what he was going to next. He needed money, and only knew of one way to get it at present, even if he wasn’t quite sure how the whole deal worked. If people were right about him, he might find some pleasure in it. 

He slept late and walked around the parts of the city his mother had always warned him against, gathering information. Late at night, he saw money changing hands in the darkest bits of town, one man paying for another’s body and for the assurance of not being rejected or humiliated or possibly beaten for approaching another man in that way, but that was not what he had in mind for himself. Within a week and several false starts, he had found what he was looking for. He sat outside the building where the secret club was for several nights watching the men circle and search for the hidden side entrance. Some of them approached. Some of them left. Some of them would enter after a quick look around to see if they had been discovered. Sometimes they left with other men later on. If he walked to where he could see the alley next to the club, there were often shadows moving around together and getting tangled. 

In another few days he had figured out how it worked and gathered the courage commit to going in that very night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for not uploading a chapter with Los Johns. They hate me and it makes me sad. I will change my tags on the story after the next chapter if the story doesn't move back in that direction.  
> Also, I was nervous about this chapter. I am not sure what people will think. If you have suggestions or thoughts, let me know.  
> (Also, have I mentioned that I love you? You! Yes, you, reader! You're the best. I want to give you a huge hug!)


	4. The Frenchman's Handsome Nephew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher makes new friends. Things get a bit steamy.

Two and half years after leaving his stepfather's house, Christopher Drawlight was newly turned eighteen years old and very comfortable. 

One reason for this was a man at the far end of his middle years named Mr Short. Mr Short was a confirmed bachelor and had no family and few close friends, but many loose acquaintances and a lot of money and time. Mr Short was not much interested in things of a sexual nature any more, or perhaps never had been as far as Christopher knew, but he enjoyed Christopher's company immensely . He also enjoyed that when his young friend was over he was not alone. He liked to buy Christopher clothes and see him wear them, and to surprise him with other expensive things. These things, in exchange for his time, were more than fair, thought Christopher Drawlight, who spent as many evening as he could with Mr Short. 

Mr Short liked to take Christopher to nice restaurants and parties in the guise of his nephew and secretly hold his hand under the table, or touch his soft cheek when no one was looking. Mr Short liked to brush Christopher's hair before bed and hold his small, pretty body while he slept and he liked to wake up with his bed warm and Christopher’s hand in his. This was an arrangement Christopher was fine with. Mr Short was a nice man who had never hurt anybody and he was kind, thankful for an evening in Christopher's company, hearing Christopher's stories and gossip and jokes. 

Mr Short had introduced Christopher to a great many people, who had introduced him to many more. One of those was a much younger man than Mr. Short, a married man, who was currently paying for a small apartment for Christopher so that whenever he wanted, he could go there and find his lovely young man waiting. He was not as nice as Mr Short, but did not generally ask too much of Christopher's time in exchange for the rent he paid. An hour here or there, very little talking, and no questions at all. He was the other reason Christopher was comfortable. 

They were just the sort of people he had been hoping to meet when he set out, and he was glad things had become as they had. He was worried from time to time that the married man might bore of him, or get scared off, and stop paying for the apartment, but he had long ago decided that it was better not to worry about a problem until after it actually became a problem so that he didn't unnecessarily extend any discomfort he may face 

Not that there was much of that. Between the apartment and Mr Short's generous gifts, Christopher was well taken care of. He did not want for fun either as Mr Short even knew a surprising amount of very interesting people that he got to meet when they were out. 

Or sometimes, when they were in. 

Mr Short threw a birthday party and invited a large number of people, most of whom came because it was going to be excellently catered and full of other rich people like the host. 

Christopher got a new outfit and took Mr Short to the tailor's for one for himself. He helped Mr Short choose the food for the event and even convinced him to impress the guests with a small redecoration of his living room and chose a new sofa and other accessories.

On the night of the party, he dressed himself in his expensive new clothes and helped Mr Short into his. He sat on the bed while Mr Short brushed his hair, beaming at their reflections in the vanity. It wasn't often the man felt so loved, thought Christopher fondly. His happiness was well deserved. He turned and planted a kiss on the older man's cheek and Mr Short squeezed his hand. 

It was a large party, but Christopher was still able to feel a set of eyes of on him through the crowd as he moved around. He was soon able to discern that they belonged to a handsome, fair haired man who looked to be in his mid thirties or so and spoke with a French accent. Christopher did his best to avoid him until the man ensured a meeting between them by following Christopher into Mr Short's garden when he went out for air.  
"Excuse me," said Christopher. "I really wasn't expecting company and I actually have a little bit of a headache." 

The man stared at Christopher some more, taking in his perfectly cut clothes and hair. 

"Who are you?" asked the French man. 

"Mr Short's favorite nephew, Christopher." 

"I heard someone else say that, but later some other person assured me that they had known Mr. Short for a long time and that his sister had only two girls who never see him."

"That person was wrong." 

The fair haired man raised his eyebrows. 

"Why do you care?" asked Christopher. "I've never seen you before, either. You're not his friend." 

"No, I am not. I am a friend of another guest." 

"Well, that's settled then. Now you can go away." 

The man had moved very close to Christopher. He did not, as Christopher asked, go away. Instead, he reached over and touched the sleeve of Christopher's jacket. 

"I am here visiting my boring older brother and his boring English wife and their terrible children." 

"Well done," said Christopher, without bothering to hide his sarcasm. 

"They will be gone tomorrow evening for a very long time." 

Christopher gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders to show that he did not care where this man's family went, and also to remove the man's hand from his jacket, which he was still stroking. 

"I can leave you the address. Privately, of course. If you could come after 6:00, that would be preferable." 

Christopher did not respond at first, but the man did not move. In fact, his fingers had inched forward and were playing with Christopher's. When this action was not halted, he leaned down and placed a long kiss on Christopher's mouth. 

"I hope you come," he said. "My brother is so boring and you are a very amusing young man. Not a good liar, though." 

When he went upstairs that night to undress, he found a note in his jacket his pocket, with an address and a name on it. The first name was Francois, the last largely illegible to Christopher, or perhaps just French. 

At 5:30 the next evening, he found himself dressed in his favorite ensemble and hailing a cab, holding the piece of piece of paper in his hand. 

 

The house Christopher arrived at was large, newly built. When he knocked at the door, Francois answered with a grin. 

"So, you were free after all," he said. 

"Yes, I was free." 

The house was exceptionally clean and full of light colored furniture and old looking, highly breakable things, like a person would have to be very careful living there. Francois walked him through the house. In the living room, there was a large photograph of a good looking family. 

There was a man a bit older than Francois, but very similar in appearance. He was sitting next to a beautiful red haired woman and they were surrounded by three beautiful, blonde children. Two were a set of twins, maybe his sister Patsy's age; a boy and girl. The other child was another boy, a young man really, some years older than his siblings. Francois saw Christopher looking at the picture and stopped. 

"That is my brother, the boring one. As I mentioned, his wife is very pretty, but also boring. The children are each more terrible than next." He laughed a little. "No, I am wrong. The most terrible is the big one, the stuck-up looking one there." He pointed at the young man in the photo. "He is very much like his mother. They named him for me, you know, because I am his godfather, a job I never asked for, can promise you. His mother chose the English equivalent of my name to honor me with, however. My godson was alone as a child for a long time and threw such a tantrum when he found out babies would be overtaking his house. I came to visit six month after; he was still pouting, trying to get me to take them back to France. Very unbecoming behavior for someone nearly old enough to grow a mustache, as he was the time."

They went into the kitchen, where Francois had out had the necessary paraphernalia for making them drinks. He poured generous amounts of what Christopher knew was a very nice Scotch for them. 

Francois finished his drink quickly and sat watching Christopher.

"I am glad this trip is turning out to not be as dull as the others," he said. 

It had been a long time since Christopher Drawlight had blushed, but he did now under the scrutiny of this man's gaze, when earned a smile from Francois. Francois reached over and gently took the glass from Christopher. He joined their fingers together and then leaned in and kissed him. He leaned over and ran his fingers though Christopher's soft dark hair as he did and drew him very close. 

"You kiss well," said Francois when they pulled apart. 

"High praise from a Frenchman," said Christopher. 

This earned a long laugh from Francois. 

"I was right. You're very amusing." He watched Christopher for a while again. "I am enjoying very much looking at you, Christopher. But I would enjoy it more upstairs, I think. And with less clothing." 

Christopher followed the man upstairs into a nondescript bedroom, where he lay on the bed and Francois spent a very long time removing him of his clothes and kissing him.  
Hours later, he chapped all over from kisses and a surprising amount of love making. He was also very sleepy and drunk, as sometime in the between rounds of being inside one another, Francois had walked downstairs quite naked and brought up the bottle of Scotch for them. Christopher was on his stomach and Francois was kissing the back of his neck and rubbing his back when there was the noise of a car door closing outside the house. Francois swore to himself in French and sat up. 

"Well, Christopher, it is time for you to go. My boring brother is home early, it seems. How very boring of him.” 

Christopher's eyes got even larger as Francois began to dress. 

"Don't worry. I will go downstairs and keep them occupied. You dress now and leave through the door in the kitchen. There is a gate in the garden back garden." 

Francois pulled the shirt over his head and then leaned over and gave Christopher a parting kiss before heading toward the door. 

“Francois,” said Christopher. The man stopped and looked back. “I-I couldn’t read your last name on the note you left me. What if I want to find you again?” 

Francois smiled and returned to the bed, where learned down to his pink and naked young lover. His lips found Christopher’s ear and he whispered his full name, before turning it a final kiss to his neck. 

The door shut behind Francois and Christopher dressed as quickly as he could. When he was fully clothed again, he cracked the door and listened. He sneaked down the stairs as quietly as he could for a very drunk person and was able to make it out into the garden without being detected. 

It had begun to rain lightly while he was upstairs otherwise occupied and as he stumbled through the mud to look for the gate, Christopher slipped and fell. He yelped loudly without meaning too and heard a rustle nearby. He looked up and saw a small orange light moving closer until it quickly turned to a cigarette in the hand of a tall, handsome young man a few years older than Christopher, one with blonde hair. 

"Pretty boys sneaking through the garden?" asked the young man, his lip curled in bored, almost smile as he watched Christopher reach his feet and then drunkenly fall again. He did not reach out a hand to help, but continued to smoke and investigate the person he had found in his garden, who was now attempting to stumble up again.

"Sorry,” said Christopher rather desperately. He knew he was talking to the young man from the photo in the living room, the one who was Francois’ godson. ”Please. I'm leaving," 

The blonde young man's hair was starting to stick to his head as it filled with the fine drizzle. He shrugged at Christopher and exhaled some smoke. 

"It's not like I care what you and my gross old uncle do," he said. 

Christopher was standing again, just managing to not vomit. He did not tell the young man that his uncle was far from gross or old. He figured someone as young and handsome as this person would think very many people to be gross and old. He was feeling more confident now that he was sure the young man was not going to call his parents into the garden and expose him and Francois.

"I am looking for the gate, if you please, Francis Lascelles," Christopher said. He was hoping to surprise the young man by knowing his name, and for a second, he thought he might have. But then, as he motioned to a dark area a few yards away, the surprise on the blonde’s face changed into in a slight smirk before it was every fully realized. 

"I actually go by my middle name," he said. "Henry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading. I fully intend for the next chapter to have Los Johns in it again.


	5. The Woman Called Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Johns make a visit to some very important people, get unexpected news.

It had been over two and a half months since Arabella Strange had seen her husband and she wasn't sure if she was ever going to see him again. It did not get easier, as she woke up each morning in the house they had once shared. She had changed rooms almost immediately after her arrival home as the closet of Jonathan's clothes in their bedroom was too much for her to see each morning when she dressed. She had left a piece of paper he had written on on the desk in their room exactly as it was, not even picking it up to hold it in her hands. When she arrived home, she had found half the house cluttered with magical instruments and books and sometimes the remains of food or drink that Jonathan had remembered from time to time he needed. Most of the books she left alone while getting rid of the rest. It was disgusting, but she had had cried throwing out a hunk of molded bread that carried the imprint of his mouth in it. 

She knew that was what the men named John wanted to speak about when they arrived, about Jonathan and Gilbert and where they might be and how to get them back. It was Emma who saw them first as they closed the door on John Childermass' car and stood outside it talking and she cursed softly, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"It's fine, Emma," said Arabella. She rubbed at her temples as she walked up behind her friend and looked out the window too. Everything made her tired lately. “

John Segundus and John Childermass had still not started walking toward the house. John Segundus was talking animatedly to the other man, his dark eyebrows knotted, and holding John Childermass’ right arm lightly as if to keep him in place. 

"At least he brought Segundus with him," said Emma, still watching John Childermass, whose arms were folded and his eyes half rolled to the sky as he listened to whatever his friend was so urgently saying to him. But there was a half smile on his face.

"Norrell isn't his fault," said Arabella. "Wasn't.”

Mrs. Strange walked from the window, leaving Emma to watch what was going on between the two men named John. Mr Segundus seemed placated by something that Mr Childermass said and his whole body calmed at once as he nodded to his friend. Emma turned from the window just in time to see Arabella slumped down into a chair and she ran to her side. 

"Don't worry," said Arabella. 

"Are you well enough for this?" asked Emma. 

"Are you?" 

Emma was interrupted from whatever she was going to say in return by a knock at the door and involuntary scowl that came over her face. They both stood at the same time, Arabella with the help of the offered hand of her friend. Emma waited and Arbella walked to the door as she followed closely behind. 

John Segundus looked deeply apologetic from the moment he laid eyes on Mrs Strange. She was thinner and paler than either man had ever seen her, but she smiled greeted and Mr Segundus warmly and told him that she was glad they had come as he apologized for the interruption. Mr. Childermass stood quietly as she hung up the coats. 

Emma Wintertowne had taken a tentative step forward toward the doorway and John Segundus maneuvered to where he was standing between her and John Childermass. 

"John," said Emma to Mr Segundus. "I am glad to see you looking so well."

"I am even happier to see you so," said Mr Segundus and the room got quiet. 

"And I see you've cut your hair. And dyed it, too."

Arabella Strange raised an eyebrow at her friend and she and John Childermass exchanged nods. 

"Mrs. Strange, is there some place we could talk?" he asked. "As you know, there are many pressing matters to discuss." 

"I am not sure I can help at all with anything, but yes, of course we may talk." 

She showed them into the parlor. Books and notebooks sat by the chairs that Mrs Strange and Miss Wintertowne had been in. By one there was a drawing book and pencil, which carried a sketch which, from what Childermass saw in the seconds before Mrs Strange closed the cover of the book over it, appeared to be of her husband. It was a gray day, still a few weeks from spring and even in early afternoon, night seemed to loom. Arabella asked the men to wait while she made some tea for everyone. Mr Segundus and Miss Wintertowne exchanged pleasant conversation, though Emma with a few glances over to Mr Childermass as she spoke. The man did not notice and silently studied the room as the other two spoke. He could feel the remains of all of the magic Jonathan Sttrange had done in this house and his stomach knotted a bit. It was old, flowing away by now. He wondered how Mr Segundus was faring. When Mrs Strange returned, she sat next to Emma and regarded the men in across from her. Mr Segudus was wiping his hands on his trousers and looking at his knees. Mr Childermass regarded Mrs. Strange back. 

"Mrs Strange, I'm sure you've heard, but Christopher Drawlight is dead." 

"I had heard," said Mrs. Strange. "I wasn't the one who did it, if you're asking." 

This brought a smirk to John Childermass’ face that just barely moved the stubble around his mouth. 

"No, that was never a question, of course. If we had to take seriously that any person who could have wanted to kill Christopher Drawlight might have, we would have a long list to get through."

"Drawlight?" asked Emma. "I remember him. He was a huge nuisance to my husb- my ex husband. To Walter. Tiny man, a bit hysterical, always with the tall one, the blonde." 

John Childermass and John Segundus looked at one another and Mr Segundus became very interested in pouring everyone tea. 

"Henry Lascelles," said Arabella Strange, accepting a quickly offered cup of tea from John Segundus while still looking at John Childermass. "Jonathan was never a fan of his. “ 

“With good reason,” said Mr Childermass. Mr Segundus placed a cup of tea that he was not particularly interested in into his hands.

“You know something." 

"Christopher Drawlight was likely one of the last people to see your husband, Mrs. Strange. He was carrying several messages from Strange at the time of his death." 

"And odd choice of confidant," said Emma. She looked over at her friend, who was still watching John Childermass intently as she took a small sip of tea. ChIldermass set down his own tea untouched on the small table in front of him. 

"He was sent by Lascelles and Norrell to gather information and spread their lies," he told Mrs Strange. "Some of those lies concerning you, Mrs Strange. He was sent back by Strange. The messages he had asked Drawlight to deliver were stolen by Henry Lascelles, which I have proof of as one of them was for me and I took it from the man myself. It is very possible, the most likely situation, that he was killed by Lascelles for whatever information he carried."

Mrs. Stange had gone white listening to John Childermass. Her teacup wobbled in her hand and Emma jumped up to take it from her the moment before she nearly let it slip to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Strange said, looking her now empty hands.”It's still very hard to talk about Jonathan, to hear what he went through while I was imprisoned. And I'm not well." 

"No, we are sorry," said John Segundus. He gave a brief, annoyed glance to Mr Childermass and set his own tea cup down. By the time he looked back to Mrs Stange, Emma was helping her from her chair. 

"I think that is it for this afternoon," she said. "It would be best if she rested now." 

"Are you ill?" asked John Segundus as he half rose from his chair to assist Miss Wintertowne in holding Mrs. Strange. The two women looked quickly at one another. 

"Arabella," said Emma under her breath. Mrs. Strange shook her head lightly. 

"It's not the time, Emma." 

"You can't hide it much longer." 

But Mr Childermass ad Mr Segundus had already reached the same conclusion. For the first time, John Chidermass lost his ease and stared down at his shoes. 

"Oh, Mrs. Strange," said Mr Segundus softly. He stepped forward and reached for her hand.

"It's happy news. I just wish Jonathan was here. He didn’t know, when he disappeared. I never got to tell him." 

John Childermass stood, his hands folded in front of him.

"My apologies. Mr Segunudus was right. I ought to have taken more care. I didn't understand that you were in such a delicate state." 

"How could you have?" she asked with a weak smile. "I've only told Emma and Flora and my brother so far." 

"There's someone else we should talk to," mumbled John Childermass to himself. "Two someones." 

"John,” said Mr Segundus sharply. 

“Mrs Strange.” John Childermass paused. Not for the first time, he wished that the world was a kinder place to people like Mrs. Strange, who so deserved it. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Arabella Strange shook the hands of both of the men and with the help of Emma Wintertowne, walked them to the door. John Segundus and Emma Wintertowne were hugging goodbye and Mrs Strange took a moment to speak to Mr Childermass more privately and pulled him away. 

"Do you think it will help?" she asked him. "Finding Henry Lascelles? Will it do anything for Jonathan and Gilbert?" 

"I can't know, Mrs. Strange. I'm looking as hard as I can for anything that may shed light on what's gone on. But I hope for their return." 

"You hope. But do you have hope?" 

"I think," he said. "That I do."

She nodded. 

"If it would help, you're welcome to come by another time and see if any of his writings or studies from his last days here are helpful." 

"I was hoping that would be okay. I told Mr. Segundus that I wouldn't ask, though. Your offering has helped me navigate his worries that we'd be bothering you. That I would be bothering you." 

"You and I are fine, John Childermass," said Arabella Strange.

Mrs. Strange and Mr Childermass shook hands and the two men named John left the women as they had found them, in a quiet house full of echoing magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking some, what I hope are small and acceptable, liberties with the timeline, but I had to to make some things fit. I hope it works okay. I got the idea for this chapter last night and in my excitement churned it out quickly, so please be honest if anything needs reworking.  
> Thanks again for reading.


	6. The Casual Acquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and John are on the road, share a night at a hotel.

John Childermass and John Segundus did not return to their home that night. There was work to be done yet and Mr Childermass still had inquiries to make. 

They drove out of town, the car quiet as they both dwelled on the afternoon.

They stopped in the early evening to rest for the night. There was a restaurant across the street from a small hotel where they deiced to stay. John Childermass went to the restaurant, where he ate a leisurely dinner alone while John Segundus got a room for the evening first by himself. John Childermass waited over an hour and then walked across the street to the hotel, where he checked in separately. He passed Segundus having coffee alone at a table in the nearly empty dining area, his dinner plates not yet cleared away.

Mr Segundus did a very excellent job of feigning surprise when he saw his friend. 

"Why, John, what a coincidence," he said. Mr Childermas had to suppress a smile as he walked over. 

"Mr Segundus," he said. John Segundus stood and they shook hands. The only other diners, a pair of old women and a middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit sitting at another table, paid them little attention. "What brings you so far from home?"

Under the guise of a few second's conversation between friends having a chance encounter, he was able to see that Segundus had written the number of his room on a paper napkin, which he spilled the remainder of his coffee on after John Childermass had seen it. 

They parted without drawing notice, Mr Segundus apologizing to a waitress who was also apologizing to him while they both mopped up coffee as Childermass walked away. It was only 7:00 in the evening and John Childermass went to his room alone and waited. The room was spare and the carpet a bit worn, but very clean. He sat on the bed and finished reading the newspapers he had bought at dinner.

Much of the national news was still devoted to the unusual and frightening occurrences surrounding Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell during the winter. There was, as well, the return of Arabella Strange and the many rumors surrounding her. She had publicly exonerated her husband of any wrong doing in her disappearance many times, but there were still those who reported the theory that she was being coerced by friends of Strange into saying this. 

Photos of Strange and the young woman Flora Greysteel in Venice prior to his disappearance had somehow been procured last month and the lesser publications ran reprints and commentary constantly, even as her father threatened law suits and Arabella Strange offered no comment other than defense of her husband and friend. Just wait, thought John Childermass as he skimmed one such paper, until they found out the latest development. He hoped that Arabella had someone to shield her from the eyes of reporters after news got out that she was expecting. Childermass expected some very hurtful gossip would occur. 

Mrs. Strange’s brother had his own problems that got many lines in the papers, as he was trying, currently without success, to stop the publication of private correspondence between him and his brother-in-law. The divorce of Sir Walter and Lady Pole dominated much of what was left of space in the news. The former Lady Pole, now going by her maiden name and sporting a chic haircut, had apparently decided to leave Sir Walter an undisclosed amount of money toward the repayment of his debts at their parting, said one article. Speculations followed. 

There was very little noise in the small hotel to begin with, but there was enough for it to die down completely around 10:00. That was when John Childermass left his room and walked down the dark stairs to find the room where Segundus was staying. 

He gave a quiet knock and the door opened immediately. John Segundus was in sleeping clothes and his hair was wet and his skin pink from a very recent bath. A thin towel hung over the radiator under the window. Childermass entered the room in silence to avoid anyone who might have been in the adjoining rooms hearing him, but he could not help a smile and a long look at Mr Segundus. 

"What?" asked Segundus when the door was closed. 

"You're a grown man, John Segundus. I didn't even know they made matching pajamas so large." 

"It's a cold night," said Segundus. "And Mrs Honeyfoot made me these herself for Christmas." 

"Ah," said Chidermass, sitting on the small bed. He was still grinning at Mr Segundus. "All is explained." 

John Segundus joined him on the bed. Childermass took off his shoes and turned his full attention to the man sitting next to him. 

"You're tired," he said to Segundus. He reached over and brushed away a lock of hair from Segundus' forehead that was still heavy with water from his bath. 

"Very. It was a long day. I was drained by seeing Mrs Strange, if I’m honest. I was upset by her news, too, happy as it should be. It pains me to think of her without her husband in her state." 

"She has friends. She has her brother. She isn't alone, thankfully. But I understand you."

"Imagine," said Mr Segundus. "Jonathan Strange is somewhere and he doesn't know that in six months time he will be father." Mr Segundus thought to himself for a moment. "He would have been very happy. He would have been a good father, I think." 

"You said would have." 

"I did. Didn't I?" John Segundus exhaled a heavy breath and frowned as he leaned against the other man's shoulder. He felt John Childermass take his hand. "I just don't know how to proceed, John. We should be able to do more, between the two of us, I think." 

"You're doing what Strange would have wanted. You have the school. It annoys a lot of people that he would have liked to see annoyed, while also being an excellent school. You're keeping me company, too, and protecting me from Emma Wintertowne."

Mr Segundus smiled. John Childermass leaned in for a kiss to John Segunds' forehead, taking a moment before he did to run his hands through his wet hair. 

"Did you feel it?" he asked. "Strange's magic hanging on the house?" 

"I did," said Childermass. "It was fading, but I think..." 

He looked at the face of John Segundus against his shoulder, eyes closed. 

"You should sleep," he said to Segundus. "We've been gone since early and you encountered magic this afternoon." 

"I don't know how you do it, John. You're never tired." 

"We are hearty, in the North,” said Childermass, He reached up and began to unbutton his shirt, which he took off and hung on the post of the bed. He stood and took off his trousers and then moved in under the duvet next to Segundus. 

"North Englishmen are never cold either, are they?" asked Segundus he moved closer to Childermass' naked body in the bed. 

"Never," said John Childermass. Segundus had wrapped around him now and was yawning into his neck. "I believe you'll stay warm with me here, John, if you do away with Mrs Honeyfoot's Christmas pajamas."

"Hmmmm," said Segundus. His eyes had been closed but he opened them. "Yes. I doubt I will freeze." 

John Childermass turned and John Segundus moved his arms from around the other man's chest and legs from where they had been entwined with Mr Childermass' so that he could be undressed. The men shared a few kissed and arranged themselves again in the cramped bed, John Segundus' back to John Childermass' stomach. They slept holding hands and Mr Childermass enjoyed the smell of clean hair and soap when he finally fell asleep, a long time after Mr Segundus.

*************

Mr Segundus woke first in the morning and roused John Childermass with a small kiss.  


When he opened his eyes, Mr Segundus was leaning over him, his hair extremely messy from sleeping with it wet, pressed mostly to one side and a bit in the back standing up/ He could feel the warm skin of John Segundus' body pressed against his, one hip against his, their feet touching at the foot of the bed, and then another kiss, this one longer. 

"You look a fright," said Mr Childermass, smoothing down Mr Segundus' hair. His hand continued to roam down the other's man body from there and rested on the small of his back, pulling him closer. 

"I thought I looked a fright, John." 

"You do," said Mr Childermass. "But I'm partial to being able to wake up and see you no matter how you look." 

"How uncommonly sentimental of you."

John Segundus gave a kiss to Mr Childermass' chest, where his head was rested and under the covers, John Childermass rubbed his thighs

"It happens, from time to time." 

Both men closed their eyes again briefly. It was early, still dark, and cold. John Childermass felt Segundus' lips on his chest again and looked down at him. 

"John." said Mr Segundus. "You really should dress, I think, before it gets too much later."

"I should." 

Mr Childermas sighed. Even that small action caused their bodies to move against each other and then as he tried to shift his weight, their bodies touched even more. He sighed again and gave a grunt of dissatisfaction at needing to move away from here, from the bed where John Segundus was, at not being able to spend the morning how he wanted to spend it, which was kissing John and having John kiss him and feel their bodies come together. 

"We will be home soon," whispered Segundus. 

They sat up in the bed and Childermass reached for his shirt. 

"I hope that you're successful in finding a way to bring them back," he heard Segundus say. 

"Of course." 

"I'd like a talk with Norrell." 

"I'm sure you would." 

"No, John Childermass. I'd like to thank him for at least one thing. For having the smarts to employee you and for being prickly enough to send you around on his business. If he'd been a different kind of man, we never would have met." 

Mr Chilermass turned to look Mr Segundus, who was smiling at him, sitting cross legged on the bed and still not dressed at all. 

"That's...thank you, John," he said. "You're right." 

"Why, who knows who might have ended up in my bed if he hadn't!"

Mr Childermass laughed and leaned over for a quick kiss to the still grinning mouth of John Segundus. 

"It's too early for humor." 

He stood and reached for his trousers on the floor and pulled them on. 

"Could two casual acquaintances who met by chance at a hotel have breakfast together?" asked Mr Segundus. 

John Childermass raised an eyebrow at Segundus’ still naked body.

"Only if both of them are dressed." 

Mr Childermass buttoned his trousers and on the bed, Mr Segundus was pulling sleeping clothes over his body. 

It was going to be another long day. He was very glad Mr Segundus was there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sometimes being an American and trying to write a decent fic don't work so well together. I have basically 0 practical knowledge of English geography or how long it would take to get from one place to another. I am also piecing the plot together chapter by chapter. Anyway, thanks for bearing with me. If anyone would like to fund a research trip so that I can come to England and study the local landscape (and the locals) I'd be down for that.


	7. The Crying Girl of Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Venice does not go as planned for Drawlight.

Venice had started off very poorly indeed for Christopher Drawlight. 

He had arrived to a series of disappointments. Drawlight had hoped to find Flora Greysteel and manage a secret talk with her, but on his way over to Italy, the good doctor had squelched that plan by sending her away with her aunt. His encounter with the man himself had been a disaster and what's more, despite the humiliation he had endured for the chance at real information from an actual confidant of Jonathan Strange's, it had been for nothing. Dr Greysteel had dropped no hints at all as to where he had sent his daughter, not even by accident. It had been a particularly bad day that ended with him alone in his bed at the cheap hostel he was staying at, quite close to tears. He was supposed to call Henry and report that night, but had dreaded too much what he would say. 

Drawlight could have gone to search for Flora Greyteel, of course, and he tried to gather information from other sources on where the spinster sister of Dr. Greysteel and his daughter, a topic of conversation that winter in London if there ever was one, were but that had not gone to plan either. Some of his clothes had been totally ruined by the dip in the canal he had taken thanks to that oaf Frank. 

Henry was not pleased with the information he had been gathering, or rather the information he hadn't been gathering. He sounded increasingly desperate on the phone and Christopher Drawlight was getting scared. No one would share with him exactly what was going on and things had changed so much since he had been in prison. Lascelles had placed everything on Norrell emerging victorious from whatever fray had grown frightfully when he was behind bars. Drawlight was scared that Strange would kill him, perhaps by accident as he was very ill now, and if that didn't happen then Henry Lascelles might, very much on purpose. 

He stumbled through the city, hearing the same obvious lies about Jonathan Strange over and over and spreading them as far as he could.

Everything was going terribly, until he met Amelia. 

Drawlight had been talking to a different group of people since his meeting with Greysteel, who had assured that a large number of the English expatriates in the city that he had been speaking to or hoped to speak to would no longer see him. Adapting his plan had been fairly easy and he started speaking to people who may have had information but that who nobody else would have thought to speak to; people who cleaned, people who cooked, people who watched the people like Jonathan Strange. 

He found out through a girl who washed dishes at a restaurant that Strange had once been to with the Greysteel girl that there was something very interesting indeed happening. The dishwasher girl swore she saw somebody taking a picture of the two through the window. Strange had nearly caused a scene, she said. 

He asked at a few other places he knew that the two had been together and three other people reported the same; that someone had snapped pictures of Strange and Flora Greysteel while they were together in the city. Interestingly to Drawlight, only one of those people reported that Strange or Miss Greysteel had noticed the encounter. Whoever it was had gotten better at their sneaking. 

The oddest thing by far was that these pictures remained largely secret. With all the attention devoted to Strange's every movement, especially since the Greysteel girl had come into the picture, Drawlight had assumed that someone was taking them to sell to a newspaper. The newspapers were crazed for reports of the man, fighting with his tutor, losing his wife mysteriously and suddenly, leaving the country and now, in the company of a lovely young woman almost half his age. Photos that would confirm the relationship would have gone for a large amount of money and someone had ones that might, or that could at least be used as bait for gossip. But no pictures appeared anywhere. 

Perhaps, Drawlight thought, someone was blackmailing Strange or the doctor for them. But that seemed unlikely. Strange was, if only recently, a widower and by all accounts, Flora Greysteel was similarly free and her father approving of the match. There was nothing, it seemed that would harm anyone involved, and no one was even sure if the relationship was romantic. They were seen together, but never doing anything more than talking or eating or taking in the city and from what Drawlight gathered, Strange appeared to be keeping the girl at arm’s length. The question of who wanted pictures of Strange and Flora Greysteel and why remained a mystery. 

Drawlight hit gold one day when he met someone who had been fired from the home of a very rich woman named Mrs. Kendall-Blair and who was very happy to tell all that they knew about her. 

Mrs. Kendall-Blair was married woman. Drawlight had had a conversation with her during his first week in Venice and knew what she was about. She was spiteful and a gossip, but had given him some of what was at the time the best information he had gotten about Strange’s activities since arriving in Venice, liberally interspersed with rumors.

There was a bilingual Italian boy who ran errands and helped her and her husband translate things and speak to people at the shops for them. He was the one who told Mr Drawlight the reason for Mrs. Kendall-Blair's spite. She had attempted to seduce Strange after his arrival in the city and had been firmly rebuffed, according to the Italian boy. She had been livid when she heard that Flora Greysteel had come into to the picture and that was how poor Amelia got involved. 

Drawlight thanked the Italian boy and gave him some of the money had been sent with for bribes and favors such as this and returned to the home of Mrs. Kendall-Blair and waited. It took two days to find Amelia without drawling attention to himself and another to get her alone and convince her to come back to his room for a talk on her day off. 

She cried. She cried and cried and cried. 

"Please don't tell," she said. She grabbed at Christopher Drawlight's shirt. "I didn't want to." 

"I know, I know," he said, holding her hand in his and looking for a long time into her eyes.

Amelia was short and charmingly plump. Her cheeks were pink and accentuated with dimples and she was only nineteen years old. She had beautiful blonde hair in a braid down her back that ended in a soft, shining, curl and she was terrified. 

"I need my job," said Amelia. "I didn't want to come to Italy, but what was I going to do? She offered me work helping keep the kitchen accounts and the pay was good. My brother, he was hurt in the war, can't walk, can't do anything. Dad died in an air raid. Mum's taking care of Pete all on her own. I have to make money. I have to help."

"Yes, of course." Drawlight stroked her hand. 

"She told me to take the pictures. She told me she'd give me more money if I did and they were good. I don't know what she wanted the pictures for. I think she's going to sell them, or use them, but I don't know when. Please, I'm scared of Jonathan Strange and I'm scared of her."

She cried. She cried and cried and cried. 

Drawlight used some of the money from Lascelles and Norrell and went out and brought back wine and bread. He let Amelia cry and promised that he would help her. He gave her a little wine and she drank that, and slowly, she stopped crying. The rest of the wine he had for himself. 

Amelia had never been kissed. She had never thought that a man with such large brown eyes and soft black hair and a pretty face would want to kiss her. She never thought that he would tell her she was beautiful as he touched her body. She never thought that life would be so romantic as sitting on the end of Christopher Drawlight's bed in a grungy hostel while he undid her braid and ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her neck and shoulder and asked her if he could undo her dress to see how she looked without it. 

He smelled like cheap Italian wine and tasted like it too when their mouths met and it made her head spin. When she was undressed in front of him, he told her she was perfect and kissed her some more and she could hardly believe it when he laid her back on the bed. Amelia had never seen a man without clothes on, but Christopher Drawlight looked just as perfect to her as he said she looked to him. She never thought that life would be as good as it was in his bed, or when he fell asleep with his head on her chest, or when they woke up before dawn and walked together back to Mrs. Kendall-Blair's. 

She met him again twice more and each time was better than the one before it. On the third time, she gave him the negatives of the pictures she had taken. 

Henry was happy with him. The pictures turned out so well and Mrs. Kendall-Blair was so amusingly angry at the loss of her photos that he agreed that girl deserved a reward. Drawlight asked Lascelles to find the girl a better job, closer to her family. It was the least they could do since she would lose hers the moment Mrs. Kendall-Blair found out the rather obvious answer to who had stolen her photos, said Drawlight. Henry must have been in a good mood, because he complied and within days arrangements had been made. 

Drawlight invited her over one last time and asked how she would feel about moving back to England. 

She cried. She cried and cried and cried. 

"But, Christopher?"

"I know. It means we can't be together any more. But didn't I promise I would help you? Doesn't this help?"

Amelia wiped at her eyes. She nodded. 

"Besides," he said, giving the back of her hand a kiss. "You know my reputation. You're a good girl. The best girl. I'd never do for someone as sweet as you. Amelia.” He leaned and whispered into her ear. “I’ve been with men.”

"I don't care!" 

He nodded and let her think as he gently held her hand.

"But my mum," she muttered. "My brother." 

"Yes," he said. "Your mum and your brother. What will you do?"

He told her the salary; that she would be working in an office, where she could wear a nice dress and stockings and paint her nails and use a type writer. She decided to go. 

Amelia spent one more night with the man she would, even after she was married two years later to the shy young lawyer whose letters and notes she typed, consider to be her first love. He was kind and gentle and she trembled in his arms when he kissed her. 

Drawlight had meant it when he said she was a good girl. When she sneaked from his room for her last day with the unkind Mrs. Kendall-Blair, he hoped that she would enjoy her new job and she would find someone who would be kind to her. 

The photos were on their way England and Christopher Drawlight found out that his presence had been discovered by Strange. Two weeks later, the first of the photos hit the newspapers. Days after that, Drawlight was on his way home with three messages and the worst sense of dread.


	8. Poor Miss Emerald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is a bit awkward for Christopher Drawlight and he runs into someone he knows.

Christmas the year he was twenty years old, Christopher Drawlight's youngest sister cried until he was invited to the family's lunch. 

It was Patsy, the oldest of his sisters, that called to ask him over and he hardly recognized the voice of the young woman on the phone. He had to ask three times before he understood who he was talking to. 

"Marianne is throwing a fit because Pop says it's just going to be family at Christmas this year," she said. 

"Oh." 

"She won't stop screaming. It's driving us all mad. So you have to say you'll come so she'll stop." 

"I can do that. But am I actually invited?" 

Patsy gave a sigh that Christopher did not tell her was very much like own at that age, the year he left home. 

"Yes, Chris. No one wants her tearing the place apart when you don't arrive after we told you would. So make sure you're there on time." 

Christopher's friend Mr Short had died the preceding spring and had left him a decent sum of money. At first, he had thought of not accepting, but when he was one of only three people at the funeral, he decided that no one else really deserved it after all. The money was going much faster than he had anticipated it would, but there was still enough, he thought, for a few presents for the girls, so in advance of the day he went out shopping. He hadn't seen most of the family in months or more and had no idea how big his sisters were now, so he bought things like hats and scarves that would fit anyone. For Marianne he bought a tiny coat and a doll. 

Christmas morning he went to the home that he had only been to a handful of times in the years since he had left five years ago. The old man who answered the door bared little resemblance to the man Christopher remembered from his childhood. He had gotten a pair of thick glasses and where his hair had once been, some liver spots had developed.  
"Chris," said Mr Frogge, extending a hand that his stepson had a hard time shaking because he was holding an arm full of packages. 

"A bit extravagant isn't it?" asked Mr Frogge. “Did you forget there’s a war on? 

He did not take any of the packages from Christopher's arms but squinted at them in vague disapproval. 

"They're things the girls can use, I think. And I didn't spend much, I really didn't." 

Dale Frogge shoved his hands in his pockets with a grunt and began to walk toward the living room. Christopher followed him and set the presents on the coffee table. The furniture had not changed since the last time he really lived there, in the week between his mother's death and funeral, the week when the house was full of the tears of a newly born baby, full of uncomfortable guests bringing condolences. That Christmas morning, there were some sagging stockings hung on the mantle and a line of misshapen cut out men hung above them along with a small garland of popcorn that had been picked at in places. 

From down the hall, he heard the shout of a child and a door slam and seconds later, a young girl in red dress tore into the room and flung herself at Christopher's knees in a hug.

"Chris!" she screamed. 

"That's enough, Marianne," said Mr Frogge. 

Christopher Drawlight looked down at what was a much smaller and younger copy of his mother clinging to him. He gave the end of one of his sister's tight braids a playful tug and she laughed. When he looked up, there were four girls with blonde hair peering around the corner at him. 

"Come say hello to your brother, girls," grumbled Mr Frogge as he started walking into the kitchen. 

Patience was the first to move and the other two followed. Christopher had gone to see the “Macbeth” with Mr Short once and the older of his sisters reminded him in that moment of the witches in the play. 

"Hello," he said. "Merry Christmas." 

Each of his sisters was a bit taller than he was now. Patsy was wearing sheen of light lipstick and had cut her hair to her shoulders and pinned it back. Sally and Janet still had their hair long and tied back. Marianne stood next to her brother, holding his hand. 

"Merry Christmas," said Patsy after a pause. She gave the signal to her other sisters and they mimicked her, staring at the floor as the floor as they spoke. 

Christopher saw then there was a tall woman wearing a surprisingly clean apron in the kitchen stirring a pot on the stove. She had an even face, nothing too large or too small or out of place and her hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, was similarly unremarkable but comforting. Christopher gave her a small wave and she nodded back. 

"That's Miss Emerald," said Marianne. "She's my nanny. Pops asked her to eat with. I start school next year, Christopher." 

Christopher looked at his stepfather, who wasted no time in turning away to end the unspoken discussion. 

Well, good, thought he thought. Miss Emerald was no beauty like his mother had been, but Mr Frogge was old now and likely lonely and it would be a long time until Marianne was grown. He would need help and if he could be happy in the process, best to him. 

Patience went in to make tea and Marianne pulled her brother to the couch where he sat down and she immediately crawled into his lap. 

"You didn't come for Easter," she said. 

Sally and Janet took the mantle of watching their brother since Patsy wasn't in the room. They weren't twins, but the warnings they gave him with their eyes were identical. 

"Sorry. I was busy that day," he said. He couldn't help an annoyed glance back at the older girls that he'd had to lie, and to a little kid, too. "I hope it was nice." 

Soon there was tea to distract them and Marianne chatted nonstop, mostly to Christopher. 

"Those are nice clothes," said Patsy during one of the child's brief pauses. 

"Mine?" asked Chris. 

His sister continued to stare at his trousers and sweater, which were admittedly new but not something he considered extravagant. His sisters all looked very nice, he thought, but he could see that their best was carefully preserved and mended to keep looking so well. 

"I like your clothes," said Marianne. 

"Thanks." 

He struggled for a moment what to say, if he should try to explain that he had gotten them some nice things too. He waited too long though and let Marianne take over making conversation for them all again.

"Dinner in ten," called Mr Frogge. Christopher moved to get up off the couch to help set the table, but the older of his sisters were quicker and left in a line, leaving him alone with Marianne. When they were called, Christopher scooped Marianne up and carried her into the dining room as she giggled. 

The food on the table was plain and not especially abundant, but everyone, including Christopher, praised it and Miss Emerald, who made a valiant attempt to deflect the compliments as the family sat down. 

"Looks wonderful, Miss Emerald," Christopher told her. 

"Thank you, Mr Frogge," she said. 

He was confused for a moment as to who she meant since his stepfather had not spoken, and then he understood that she thought he had the same name as everyone else in the house.

"It's- well, my surname is Drawlight. But Chris is fine." 

Miss Emerald just had to begin to form a questioning look on her face when the actual Mr Frogge interjected. 

"Will you sit down, Chris? We're all hungry." 

After Mr Frogge said the grace and everyone began eating quietly afterward. Christopher Drawlight noticed that between bites of food, his family was taking turns watching him closely. 

"So, Patsy," he said. He hoped that if they had something to talk about they would stop scrutinizing him. "How is school?" 

"I left," she said, addressing her fork full of potatoes. "I work in the shop now." 

"Oh. Good." 

Patsy shrugged without looking at her brother. 

"Pop needed help." 

Christopher gave an overenthusiastic nod for lack of anything better to say and his sister continued to eat. 

"Sally? Janet? How about you?" 

"Okay," said Janet. 

"Yeah. Okay," said Sally. 

Luckily for Christopher, when he asked Miss Emerald how long she had been with the family, she was happy to tell him. He relaxed listening to her talk about coming over for a few hours each morning to watch Marianne until one of her sisters got home from school. 

"Well," said Mr Frogge when she had finished speaking. He set down his fork and crossed his arms. "We heard what she does for a job. What about you, Chris?" 

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Work, Christopher. You're twenty years old. You obviously have some money. What do you do?" 

"Well..." 

He could not very well say that he kept rich old men company and provided excitement for similarly rich younger men who wanted to keep him ready for it. He could not say that he earned his money by being available and eager and good looking and discreet. 

"It's a long story," he finished lamely. 

"It's your job. How is it a long story?" 

Everyone at the table was staring at him. Poor Miss Emerald looked constantly between him and the rest of the family, trying to discern where the aggression was coming from. 

"I just work in an office," he muttered. "That's all. Papers and things." 

Patsy could not help rolling her eyes at the obvious lie. 

"Do you have a girl, Chris?" asked Mr Frogge. "Your school friends are all getting married." 

"Not...not right now, no." 

"Bad luck," said poor Miss Emerald. 

"Don't worry," Christopher said under his breath. His face was completely red now and he stared down at his plate of food, which he longer had any interest in. 

"The things you do get back to us, you know," said Mr Frogge, his voice a dark whisper. 

Christopher Drawlight was finally exasperated enough to move past embarrassment at the situation. His smallest sister was nearly crying and poor Miss Emerald could not keep up at all with the argument.

"Is now really the right time for this discussion? Marianne is right here. And Miss Emerald, too." 

"I don't understand what all of this is about, Dale," said Miss Emerald. Mr Frogge did not answer her. 

"Are the things I have heard about you true, Christopher?" 

"Well, I guess that depends on what you've heard. I would guess that whatever it is probably true. I've kept busy." 

Mr Frogge stood up. 

"It's time you left," he said to his stepson. 

Marianne grabbed at her brother's trouser leg as he got up from his chair and he gently pried her fingers away. 

He managed to leave the table quietly.

As Christopher grabbed his coat, a small commotion started at the table. Miss Emerald was demanding to know what was going on and Marianne was now shouting at her father while he tried to calm her.

Christopher Drawlight walked for a long time after leaving his stepfather’s home. Luckily, though cold, it was sunny day. There was no one out to see him as passed the houses because everyone else still in England and not off fighting was in their homes. He eventually found a phone box and called for a taxi, which he asked to take him to the house of a man that he knew that was hosting a party that day. 

It was still early when he arrived, so there were only three other men sitting around, one curled up tight against another, who was smoking a cigarette and kissing his companion in turn. There were no Christmas decorations or even any real food here, but enough drinks that Christopher was soon comfortable. 

By the time the sun went down, the apartment had gained another handful of people. The later it got, the more crowded and the apartment was soon filled with smoke and men with nothing else to do on Christmas night, many of whom were likely on their way to war. 

Christopher found himself spectacularly drunk and getting an ample amount of attention from a handsome grey haired man in glasses. They had been in a corner of the kitchen for some time, whispering and kissing and rubbing against each other. They grey haired man had just leaned in to ask him if they would like to go someplace else when the door to the apartment opened and three young men entered. One of them was tall with well-cut blond hair wearing grey trousers and expensive shoes whose face wore the slightest hint of trying to cover discomfort. The three men hung their coats and two dissolved into the party. 

Henry Lascelles did not notice him. Even if he had, it was very possible that the dark haired young man would not immediately have sparked recognition. Christopher guessed that their encounter had been more memorable for him than Henry as young Mr Lascelles had been in his own home on an average early summer evening and Christopher Drawlight had been attempting to escape an illicit encounter. 

"Well?" asked the grey haired man to him, more loudly this time. 

"What?" 

He was still watching Henry Lascelles. The grey haired man followed his gaze to where the blond was now standing against a wall, removed from his friends. He had turned his eyes to the ceiling and affected a slouch, like the party was not even worth him looking at. 

"I see," said the grey haired man. He stepped back with annoyance and straightened his jacket. "Enjoy your evening." 

Christopher hardly noticed when he was gone. 

Henry Lascelles lit a cigarette. He had caught the eye of a few men already and one of them walked up to him. Henry took several seconds to acknowledge that he was being spoken to and then the acknowledgement was only a long, wordless stare. This prompted a frown from the man, who moved stepped forward into the space between him and the blond. 

Perhaps he would not have done it if he had been more sober, but Christopher Drawlight quickly poured a glass of wine and approached Henry Lascelles and his would be paramour. 

"Hello," he said, stepping between them and offering the drink to Henry a bit more aggressively than he had intended, shoving it toward his hand. The drink splashed a bit, hitting the back of Lascelles’ hand and the cuff of his shirt. 

"Oh for god’s sake-” Henry started to say, shaking the spilled wine off his hand, but then he stopped and looked closely at the person in front of him. Christopher saw the recognition hit him slowly. He might not have been sure from where, but he did know this young man. He took the drink from Christopher, who then turned to the man who had been talking to Lascelles. 

"I need to speak to him, please," said Drawlight. 

"Who are you, then?" 

"Not that I have to answer, but I am a friend of his family's." 

"It's true," said Henry Lascelles. He crossed his arms across his chest. "He is intimately acquainted." 

The man shrugged and gave a bit of a huff before walking away. Christopher motioned that Henry should follow him outside. Lascelles paused but then did so, somehow managing to give the impression with a quick look back to the party that he was choosing the less painful of two possible ways to die of boredom. 

Christopher Drawlight and Henry Lascelles sat on the front steps of the building, turned slightly from each other. The city was so dark and quiet that it was easy to forget it was Christmas at all. 

"I just came here with my friends,” said Lascelles rather defensively. He addressed the space in front of him and not the other man, as if trying to give the impression that he was not really talking to Drawlight but didn’t care if he happened to hear what he said. “I didn't know what kind of party this was.” 

He put aside the drink Drawlight had given him but continued to smoke what was left of his cigarette. The cool he had displayed inside was only moderately frayed, but he had taken care to replace it immediately with condescension while he recovered. 

"Doesn't really matter if you did," said Drawlight. 

"Of course you would say that. You meant to come here." 

Lascelles put out his cigarette on the step. He let his eyes give the smallest flick towards the person sitting next to him.

"This is what you do, then?" he asked Drawlight. 

"Sometimes. I had a bad morning. I didn't want to be alone." 

"You could get arrested, you know." 

"The thought had occurred to me, actually, before you mentioned it." 

Lascelles turned fully toward Drawlight now. 

"Are you always drunk?" 

"We just have bad luck meeting. Not that we've actually met." 

Henry Lascelles rolled his eyes. 

"You're not subtle, you know. Fine. What's your name?"

"Christopher Drawlight." He reached across Lascelles for the drink that he was obviously uninterested in. "And how is your uncle?" 

"Oh. Dead. That's what the French army thinks anyway." 

Drawlight sat in silence for several moments holding the drink. The cold of the night was starting work its way into him and he was the level of drunk that he thought required simply getting drunker until it started to feel good again, so he took a long drink from the glass he was holding. 

"You're not very nice," he said quietly. 

"Sorry I didn't have time to write letters of condolence to everyone my uncle has ever fucked. I'm busy." 

"I doubt that." 

Henry Lascelles stood up then. There was no question that he had decided he was done talking to this person. 

"I'm going back home now," he said. He gave his clothes a quick check for wrinkles. "Make sure to tell me if my friends do anything amusing, will you? I'd hate to lose that opportunity."

"Or anything that they might hate to have you holding over their heads." 

Henry Lascelles grinned. At least that's what Drawlight would have normally called it. Lascelles' mouth moved in the general way a grin would, but the effect was cold. 

"That too," he said. "You're not useless, Christopher Drawlight." 

"Excuse me if I'm not flattered." 

Lascelles reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He produced one that he had rolled earlier and held it for a while, not lighting it. Drawlight was still sitting on the steps, now with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms around them for warmth. 

"Go get my coat for me, would you, Drawlight? I don’t want to go back inside.” 

Drawlight sighed but stood up, thinking that he was on his way back inside and cold anyway. Lascelles stared at him as he reached for the door. He put the cigarette in his mouth and let it rest there while he reached for the matches also, striking one and putting it to the end of the cigarette. 

"No, you're definitely not useless."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical research was actually done for this chapter, but I didn't get to use a lot of what I had wanted to work in.  
> Next chapter we will return to the Johns. I just had to get this one out of the way.


	9. The Greysteel Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and John go to gather information from Flora Greysteel and her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to navigate around a few of AO3's quirks, but ran into a tiny formatting issue.

"Which of us will go down to breakfast first?" asked Segundus. 

He still had not made the first move toward dressing, though Childermass was fully clothed and had run his fingers through his hair to neaten it. Segundus was too preoccupied to take the brush to Childermass' hair as he normally would have at home, so he got away with doing just that this morning. 

Childermass stood with his hand on the door and Segundus stayed crossed legged on top of the hotel duvet, his clothes where he had hung them the night before when he had his bath. Childermass suspected that Segundus allowing them this moment, one lover watching another unclothed, was his concession to a moment of intimacy that it would be difficult for them to have in an unfamiliar place far from the safety of their home, a place with obviously thin walls. Childermass was not ungrateful for a moment more of him.

"I doubt they'll take you as you are, as nice as you look right now. You can meet me when you're ready."

"And after?" 

"The drugstore three blocks down. I'll pick you up there at 8:30, after breakfast."

They had timed it well. There was no one in the hall when Childermass opened the door a crack and peered out. Behind him, Segundus had finally reached for his clothes. 

Childermass returned briefly to his room for his car keys, left on the side table the night before when he went to Segundus, and made sure to make the bed look like it had been slept in before he locked the door behind him and went down to breakfast. 

He sat alone and ordered like he thought he would be eating alone, though he knew he would not be. 

Twenty minutes later, Segundus came down the stairs and into the dining room. He had wet his hair to get rid of the mess made of it the night before and brushed it away from his face; the part he wore as a headmaster had not been brushed into it and he looked boyish as he came down the stairs, still a bit sleepy and rumpled. They were alone but Segundus made a show of curiosity and politeness as he approached the table where Childermass sat.

"Oh, how nice to run into you again."

"And you," said Childermass. "Would you like to sit? It looks like we're the only ones for breakfast this morning." 

The young waitress entered from the kitchen then with the tea.

"My friend will be joining me," said Childermass as she set the cup in front of him. The waitress smiled at Segundus as he sat down across from Childermass and requested tea for himself. 

Segundus was surprisingly good at this sort of thing. Perhaps it was his honest face, which lent believably to anything he said. 

"Are you still with the same job?" he asked Childermass. A spoonful of sugar went into his tea. He put on a concerned frown directed at himself and executed a well timed pause of embarrassment looking down at the cup. "I must confess, it's been so long I can't remember now- where was it again you worked?" 

"I was privately employed," said Childermass. He drank from his own cup of tea and thought it lucky he was so good at suppressing smiles or he would have had one for Segundus' act, for his studied large eyes and the innocent tilt upward of his voice. "And my employer has recently...left the country."

Segundus stirred his tea. Childermass did not know how could do it, how Segundus brought the slightest hint of a blush at the introduction of this supposedly delicate discussion. 

"Oh, well, that it is a shame. Is it a shame? Were you happy, where you were?"

"Well," said Childermass, his arm around the back of his chair. "You know how those things are." 

"Oh, yes. I'm not sure if you remember, but I also was privately employed the last time we met." 

Childermass put down his tea and reached for the cigarettes on the table next to him. 

"Now that you mention it, I think I do. By a Lord, wasn't it?"

For half an hour they talked about weather and the recent news, about Segundus' job as headmaster and about magic, as though they had not woken in the same bed this and many other mornings and did not plan to do so again tomorrow, if at all possible. 

Childermass stood from the table first, with a wish to his breakfast companion that they should meet again soon and he walked from the dining area to pay his bill at the front desk, where a a tired old man sat waiting. He looked back once through the doorway as it was opened by a maid. 

Segundus sat alone at the table as the waitress refilled his tea and cleared away his lover's plates.

Childermass left the hotel and walked to his car, where he sat for fifteen minutes and watched the street. He then took another ten minutes to drive several streets over and back down, toward the drugstore three blocks from the hotel where Segundus waited on the street, his hands in his pockets. 

Childermass stopped the car at the corner and Segunds scrambled in. It was early so there were few people on the street, few people to notice one man and his relief at the sight of the car pulling up, or his rush for the door, which he shut behind him as Childermass drove away. 

"You are in entirely the wrong profession, John," said Childermass. "The films lost a talented actor when you feel in love with magic and teaching." 

Segundus made a tired effort to wave away the compliment as he looked out the window with a frown. 

"I don't like it," Segundus said softly. Without being asked, he picked up the pack of cigarettes sitting next to Childermass in his seat, lit one for him, and held it out to the other side of the car. 

"Me either. I'm sorry to put you through it." He took the cigarette Segundus offered with one hand and lifted it to his lips. "I hope it wasn't too bad." 

"Will we go home?" Segundus asked. "I want to go home where we can at least have a meal together." 

"About that. I will take you, if you like, but there's something else I need to do. I can't stay." 

"Oh." 

"Of the two options, I would like to have you with me, if you will." 

"I suppose," said Segundus, lifting his head from where it rested against the window,"that being a room or two away from you is better than half a country away from you. I'll phone Honeyfoot when we stop next." 

He paused. 

"Where will we go now?" 

"I would like to talk to Flora Greysteel, or to her father, if he'll consent to a conversation about Christopher Drawlight." 

"Drawlight seems to inspire quite the reaction." 

"You would have to know him, to understand," said Childermass without taking his cigarette away from his lips. 

It wasn't long before Segundus feel asleep again, curled into the passenger seat, and he didn't wake until they stopped for lunch. 

They went in together this time, not worried about being seen coming from the same car. Two men having lunch in a crowded diner was nothing suspicious and they enjoyed that in the crowd, no one much paid attention to two men in out-of-fashion clothes eating at the same table. No one spared a thought for the large smile that developed on the face of the younger of the men, or the smaller one given in response to it, given as cigarette was lit. No one noticed that when the tea came the younger of the men slid the sugar across the table before it was asked for. It was nearly like being alone, if not quite like being back at home. 

 

Back in the car, Segundus continued to smile an amount that warranted an amused raised eyebrow from Childermass. 

"What is it?" 

"It's was a nice meal," said Segundus. 

"It was not, but I know what you mean. I'm just glad to see you a bit happier." 

"I am. I am much happier." 

Segundus reached over and put a hand on top of Childermass' that rested on the clutch. Childermass smiled at it in his sideways way. Segundus gave the hand a squeeze and then moved it to rest high on Childermass' thigh. 

"What is this?" asked Childermass. 

"This is the most private we will get for a while it seems. Who knows where we will be tonight, if you'll even be able to come to my room wherever we are. It's nice to touch you, while I can." 

His hand moved up Childermass' thigh and back down it again. 

"John." 

"Yes?" asked Segundus. 

He traced a line with his finger to the zipper of Childernass' trousers and he took the tab between two of his fingers for a moment. 

"Be careful. I'm driving." 

"Perhaps you should stop driving, then, for a while." 

"And what do you imagine we will do, if I stop driving?" 

Segundus shrugged. His hand lingered where it was for a moment, experimenting with the feeling of the zipper tab between his fingers. Then he let it go and he rested his hand on the top of Childermass' thigh again. 

"Is your wanting of me really so bad?" 

"It is," said Segundus. 

That was not a thing that John Childermass could ignore. 

They had to wait until they found a spot secluded enough that the car wouldn't be seen, which was another twenty minutes of Segundus' hand on Childermass' leg. Segundus leaned over and kissed Childermass when the car was turned off and then crawled into the back seat. Childermass followed him and was pulled down on top of Segundus into the cramped space. They allowed themselves, despite the conditions, several minutes of kissing as clothes were loosened and slid off. Segundus' jacket and vest were soon on the floor with the shoes he had kicked off. Childermass yanked at Segundus' tie until it was loose and then pulled it over his head while Segundus applied himself to moving Childermass' trousers down his legs. 

"All of it, John," Segundus said as Childermass pulled his shirt over his head. "Please." 

So they shifted until Segundus was undressed completely underneath him and all of clothes were on the floorboard. It was a dangerous luxury, but Childermass could not say no to his asking, or to the feel of Segundus' skin. 

Segunudus moved so that his leg was around Childermass, his bare foot rested just under the car window and Childermass moved into the space between his spread legs. 

"John," said Chidermass. He spoke between kisses and nips to Segundus' chest. "If-"

Segundus put his hand to the side of Childermass face and Childermass looked up. 

"If we're caught, just lie very still and let me handle things, okay?"

He resumed the kissing and Segnundus lost himself in it. 

Segundus closed his eyes as they arranged themselves further. Childermass held him at the back of one knee and the pace that they began soon turned hungry. It left Segundus breathless, but desperate to convey his want for more. He tried to say John's name but the sound never made it through his gasps. The windows had begun to cloud from heavy breathing and both men were red in the cheeks from the warmth of it and each other. 

They kept as quiet as possible, substituting louder noises with softer ones into the others' skin. 

When they finished, there was an imprint of Segundus' foot in the steam on the window and a series of small bites on his neck. He had gripped Childermass' shoulders in their last moments and on each, there was a half moon shaped mark his fingernails had made. 

Segundus held Childermass to him for a moment after, as close as the space would allow and for as long as they could risk. 

"I miss you far too much for having spent last night next to you," he said. 

There was a piece of particularly soft skin high on Segundus' neck near his hairline that still smelled of his bath the night before. Childermass found it and gave it a nuzzle that made Segundus sigh. 

"I promise to take you home as soon as I can. And stay there with you, if it's possible." 

"I would like that. It's barely been two months since I've lived alone, I know, but...I've gotten rather used to having you around." 

Childermass lay against him a second longer, listening to the the slowing beat of of Segundus' heart and enjoying the particular warmth of his skin that came from their bodies being pressed together. 

They separated and cleaned themselves as best as they could, then dressed again sitting next to each other in the back seat. The bites on Segundus' neck were soon covered by the collar of his shirt that he buttoned back into place. He bent to find his tie under the driver's seat and put it back it on. He smiled when Childermass leaned over and tightened it for him before moving back to the front of the car. 

They cracked the windows as they started driving again and the fog they had made earlier was quickly worn away by the fresh, moving air. Segundus lit him a cigarette and just audible over the noise of the open windows, Childermass heard Segundus tell him that he loved him. 

By evening, they were at the house of Dr. Lancelot Greysteel. 

 

Emma had warned her that they might come and they did.

Flora knew the names of course. It was hard not to have heard of John Childermass and she had seen the other man's name many times on a letter to Strange, or one going from him. 

Norrell's former man of business had never been one for his picture with his boss' in the paper, on the rare occasion that had happened. Strange was never shy around a camera, but Norrell was a different matter, only photographed when necessary or unavoidable. And those, official photographs or moments snapped at important events, had not been times where people in his employment would be with him. 

Flora had not quite expected what arrived in the old blue car that parked outside her father's house; a tall and thin man, a face covered with dark stubble. A man who she watched, from the window at the top of the stairs, lean over and put out a cigarette into his car's ash tray, a man with longer hair than most men wore. He did not seem, in short, at all like someone who had spent several decades in the nearly daily presence of Gilbert Norrell. 

As for Segundus, he was just what she had thought from his neat handwriting and from what Strange had told her about him, if a bit younger looking.  


Flora was not much surprised by either of them, even if she had thought of a neater looking person when she imagined John Childermass. She was not surprised that they arrived as she had been warned. 

But why, she wondered, were two such men together? 

Segundus did the talking at the door and Flora Greysteel stood at the top of the stairs and watched her father speak to him. Maybe that was why they went together when they went. It was a good idea to have Segundus talk and to have Childermass stand just behind him. 

"Of course," said Dr Greysteel. He offered out a hand as soon as he heard the name. "John Segundus. Yes, yes. Mr Strange spoke of you highly."

"I'm glad to hear it." 

"And you have done such good work, since...since everything happened. And the book you're writing. Is it true? I've heard you're writing a book about Mr Strange."

"It is true," said Segundus. "Though the work is slow going." 

Childermass still said nothing. He stood about a foot behind Segundus with his arms crossed loosely, watching the two other men speak like they were in a film.

"Come in, please," said Dr Greysteel. He addressed it mostly to Segundus, but conceded a look to Childermass as Segundus came into the house and Childermass followed him. 

Flora Greysteel walked down the stairs and three pairs of eyes lifted to her. 

"Good evening," she said. "I heard from Miss Winterowne you two were on a tour. I'm glad to finally meet you." 

"Tour?" asked her father. "Miss Wintertowne?" 

"We are looking for someone," said Childermass. "And going places we think might lead us to him." 

Childermass hung his coat next to Segundus' beside the door. 

"I doubt, whoever it is, that they're here," said Dr Greysteel. 

"He is Christopher Drawlight's murderer." 

Dr Greysteel crossed his arms against his chest. 

"Well, when you find him, let me know. I might like to give him a medal."

"You don't mean that," said Flora to father. To John and John she said, "Would you like to stay for dinner?" 

John and John said that they would. 

 

Flora Greysteel couldn't help bringing up at dinner that her new friend Emma Wintertowne had once shot John Childermass. 

"Flora!" said her father and her Aunt together. Aunt Louisa nearly dropped her glass and her father gave her a stern look and muttered something to himself about the influence of divorced women on his daughter. 

But Childermass responded with a smile that took a long time to reveal itself as such, so slow was it in forming, so crooked was it when it finally arrived. It was a smile not directed at Flora Greysteel, but more to himself and the things he knew. 

"She's not a very good shot is she?" he asked. Childermass moved his fingers in the way a smoker does when they are used to holding a cigarette and keep forgetting that they are not and cannot. "She missed Norrell entirely and didn't even manage to kill the man she did hit." 

Flora had not looked for Segundus' reaction to this conversation, but she caught it by accident, a second where he looked to Childermass' right shoulder where there would, she imagined, be a nasty scar from the shooting that they spoke of. It was a second for that glance, another for a flinch that nearly formed on his face as the idea of it came to his mind. It was the sure knowledge of the look; the knowledge of where the scar hid. It was the instinctual care that crossed his face and the flicker of sadness when he wiped it away after recognizing it. 

Segundus reached for his glass and the moment was gone, but not before John Chidermass' eyes flickered over for a moment in an unmistakably comfortable way. 

Flora Greysteel knew then why the men named John went together when they went. 

Flora knew about such things, of course. Her friend Emma Wintertowne had confessed to a similar secret not long ago. When Emma had told her, all that Flora could think of was that this woman was her friend and a good woman and that she wanted her to be happy. 

Flora was young and could not claim that her understanding of the world was great, but she recognized love when she saw it, and fear. What she did not understand was them coming along twisted together as they did like a rope that pulled the two men together. 

 

When dinner was over, Flora did not let John Segundus and John Childermass move toward leaving. 

"John Segundus, you're a friend of Mr and Mrs Strange. You have to stay with us," she said. 

Her father agreed readily and Aunt Louisa seconded the idea. Flora could tell that over dinner that both had grown to like Segundus. a thing which they had started the meal predisposed to do. She would not be surprised if her Aunt mentioned in private later how unfortunate it was that Mr Segundus was so poor and lament a lost match between him, such a good friend of Mr Strange, and her only niece. 

As for Childermass, the best Flora could say was that her father may have become less wary as the meal progressed and that her Aunt had managed to survive a meal with a man so pointedly unshaven. 

Segundus' invitation extended, Childermass leaned back in his chair, another unhurried, private grin on his face. 

"And I?" 

"We have enough rooms, I think, for the both of you."

Aunt Louisa normally would have taken care of arranging the rooms for guests, but Flora jumped to it as soon as Segundus and Childermass had accepted. 

"You must be ready for your beds after such a long day," she said to them, then she turned to her father. "Can I show them to their rooms?' 

"Of course," he said. 

They paused before rising from their chairs with her. Segundus looked quickly between Flora and Childermass and then thanked Dr Greysteel again for the meal and the room and wished Dr Greysteel's sister a good evening. Childermass gave nods that were taken to be echoes of his friend's sentiments. 

John Childermass and John Segundus followed her upstairs. There were many rooms, but Flora chose two side by side, the ones with a door between. She showed Segundus to his room first and then took Childermass next door to his. "Mr Segundus looks very tired," she said. "I'm worried he might not be well. If there is some need, you can reach his room through here." 

She motioned to the door between the rooms. 

"I can leave you with a key, if you like. I am sure my Aunt noticed how pale he was. I'll explain he's not well and get it for you. Emma Winterowne has told me that Mr Segundus is very sensitive to magic and I imagine that all it is is that you encountered some today, but no one else in the house would know the first thing about how to care for him in such a state, so I'll leave it to you." She paused. "If that's alright. It's not often a family has two of the most powerful magicians in England under their roof. I'm sure I don't know what the etiquette is." 

Childermass took a long time to respond. 

"I'm sure you're correct about Mr Segundus," he said. "And about the etiquette, as it were. Thank you for taking such care." 

"Is there anything else you need?" 

"A towel for a bath, if possible," he said. "Permission to have one." 

"Of course." 

She took a step toward the door. 

"And a question?" 

"Well, you may ask whatever you like, but I may not have an answer."

"What can you tell me about Drawlight's time in Venice?"

"Nothing," said Flora. "My father wouldn't let him near me." 

"Has your father ever said anything about him to you?" 

"Nothing I could repeat. Is that all, Mr Childermass?"

He responded with the beginning of another of his smiles at his own secrets and reached in his pockets for his cigarettes as Flora left. 

Childermass smoked standing by the open window while he waited and when Flora returned, it was with a soft towel in her hands and a key in her pocket that she left next to it on the bed. 

Several minutes after had gone, Childermass picked up the key and opened the door between the two rooms. Segundus sat on the bed in his room frowning at the place where he stood and at the room behind it 

"Well?" asked Childermass. "Does this suit you?"

"She knows."

"And is obviously not inclined to tell or do anything to hurt us in any way."

Childermass walked up to the bed and sat down next to Segundus and Segundus took his hand. 

"It doesn't get closer than this," said Childermass. 

"Of course it does. One bed and one room, like...everyone else. That would be closer." 

Childermass sighed. 

"There's nothing I can do about that." 

Segundus was quiet for a long time. 

"Doesn't it ever make you sad, John, to be together but apart like this?" he asked Childermass. 

"It does," said Childermass. And he allowed the silence to relapse. 

"I'm tired. I want to sleep now." 

"Lie down," said Childermass. "I'll stay here until you're asleep. Would you like that?" 

"That would be very nice, John."

Segundus took off his jacket and tie. The collar of his shirt loosened again, the marks from the afternoon once again were visible on his neck. Segundus lay down on the bed, his head rested against Childermass' leg. When Segundus was asleep, Childermass left and went back to his room, where he retrieved the towel from the bed and and went for a bath. 

 

At home, they did very little alone these days, when Childermass was there and when everything else permitted. 

It was nothing they had spoken of, but a thing their lives had moved into after they had started sharing a bed. 

Childermass had not realized how much he had grown accustomed to the presence of another person in his life until he wrapped himself in the towel after his bath and instinctively looked back into the bathtub where at home, Segundus likely would still have been. He noticed then that he had not even pulled the plug on drain the before leaving the bath. Childermass had never had someone be in his life as much as Segundus was in his now and the surprise at finding himself searching for one of those moments stopped him for several seconds where he was, staring at tub of water with no one in it, a tub he had just left full for someone who was not there. He reached back in the tub and the water drained. 

Childermass dressed and returned to his room. 

The door between their rooms was open when he got back, Segundus was asleep where he had been when Childermass left him. 

He went to his room and took the pillow and duvet from the bed there and brought them to Segundus' room, where he made himself a makeshift bed on the floor next to Segundus. He didn't move to cover Segundus or undress him, but let him sleep. There was little to do, so he undressed took his place on the bed he had made.

Childermass lay awake until the noises of people walking the halls were gone and no more doors shut in the hall and then he waited for that quiet to stetch over over an hour. He knew that tonight that he and Segundus both were safe, but he had never been able to sleep when he knew others were awake. 

****************

The Greysteel's house was quiet and Flora had given them the gift of a night of peace. 

Childermass slept deeply and the noise that eventually woke him was so small that it took a long time for it even begin to do that. 

There was a second of wondering if he was awake at all, a second of wondering, one he was sure that he was, if the noise had been something from a dream lost to waking. 

There was another second of remembering where he was when he looked at the bed and Segundus' hand draped over the side of it. There was the sound of Segundus' wrist watch ticking on the wrist above that hand 

Childermass heard the noise again, the one that had woken him, and he knew it came from just above him, from John Segundus in the bed. He sat up. 

"John?" he asked. 

Segundus shivered in his sleep. The collar of his shirt was damp with sweat and his cheeks were red. Childermass could not tell if they were especially red or it was that the rest of him was so very pale. 

"John? Can you hear me? Wake up." 

The sound of his name said a second time did it. Segundus opened his eyes. 

"I think-" he said. 

"You're sick," said Childermass. 

The sun was not yet up but it was not dark enough for it to be far away. 

Childermass sat next to Segundus and took the wrist with the watch on it in his hand and lifted it. It was not quite six o'clock. 

"I'll be back," Childermass said. "I'm going to get Dr Greysteel." 

"John?" 

"It will be fine. There's a doctor just down the hall." 

Childermass dressed quickly and before leaving, covered Segundus with the blanket from the floor that he had slept on. 

In the hallway, he chose a door at random and knocked on it. The knock produced a groggy Louisa Greysteel, pulling her dressing gown around her. 

"Mr Childermass?" 

"Your niece was very right. Mr Segundus is ill. There is nothing magical about it, however. Your brother can do much more for him right now than I could."

"Of course." Aunt Greysteel spoke the words with a motherly tut. 

She shut the door behind her and walked Childermass to the end of the hallway, where she rapped at the last door. 

"Lancelot," she said. "Lancelot." 

By the time he came to the door, his daughter had opened the door to her own room as well. 

"The whole house is awake!" exclaimed Dr Greysteel when he came out into the hall and found Childermass standing with his sister and Flora watching from her room. 

"I am sorry. I believe you have a patient." 

Aunt Greysteel attempted to shoo her niece back to bed while Dr Greysteel retrieved his medical bag, but Childermass saw how she watched him. 

"I'll get some water for him," she insisted, and before her aunt could say anything, Flora had shut the door behind her and walked away. 

Segundus had fallen asleep again in the time had taken for Childermass to find Dr Greysteel and needed to be woken to have his temperature taken. 

Childermass stood by the bed and watched Dr Greysteel sit in the place he had only moments ago sat and do, as he had moments ago done, hold Segundus at the wrist, this time the hand without the watch and to take his pulse. 

Aunt Greysteel stood in the door and tugged at her dressing gown. 

"Thank goodness Flora arranged to have you close, Mr Childermass," she said. 

"Yes," muttered Childermass. He did not look at her but watched Dr Greysteel frown at Segundus' wrist and then at the thermometer. 

Flora returned with a glass of cold water that she handed to her father. 

"Mr Segundus," said Dr Greysteel. "Sit up, please, if you can. You have a high fever and I advise you to take some water now. Mr Childermass? Can you help him sit, please?" 

Segundus found his arm easily when he was close and held it. Childermass helped him pull himself up. Dr Greysteel put the water to his patient's lips and Segundus took a sip before he slumped against Childermass. He then nodded to Childermass that Segundus should lie back down. 

"He likely just needs rest," said Dr Greysteel. "But it looks like you, Mr Segundus, will be our guest a few days more." 


	10. The Owner of the Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Segundus stays at the Greysteel's to recover.

There was, thought Childermass, as he stood in the door and watched Louisa Greysteel fuss over pillows and blankets, something about Segundus that brought out this sort of behavior in people. 

Aunt Greysteel had not left Segundus' side all day, except to go to the door and call for her niece or for Childermass, if there was something she needed him for. Childermass had gone up in her esteem when she saw how he handled a crisis and she deferred to him on certain things, such as what food his friend might like if he were to wake and be up to eating. She deferred to him as well when her brother insisted Mr Segundus be changed into more comfortable clothes immediately. After all, it was not as though she or Flora could very well do that. Segundus was still mostly asleep when the door to his room closed and Childermass moved him into a sitting position leaned against his shoulder. Segundus rested a heavy weight on him as Childermass unbuttoned his shirt and trousers and slid them from his body. He was not, by now, unused to this man's naked body in his arms, but to care for him in this way was entirely different than holding him in lovemaking. Segundus' skin was hot with fever and his red, dry lips slightly open. For one moment, Childermass thought he might have woken enough to be aware of where he was and who he was with, when mumbled something and then sighed as his pajamas were buttoned onto him.

Louisa Greysteel's brother prescribed aspirin for the fever, water when Segundus would take it, and sleep. She sat with a book beside the bed and made sure all orders were followed. She took her meals there with him him too and it was not until after her supper was done that Childermass, who watched the two of them from the door, suggested she have a break for the night. Aunt Greysteel stopped her arranging of the pillows around John Segundus.

"Are you sure, Mr Childermass?" 

"I'm positive. I've done nothing all day but smoke and walk your garden. I'm very well rested." 

"Well." Aunt Greysteel gave another pitying look to Segundus. She stopped just short of ruffling his hair. "You do look a bit better, John." 

"Oh, I think I am," said Segundus. 

Aunt Greysteel turned to Childermass, hands on her hips. 

"Now, Lancelot says he needs an eye on him for now, just to be safe." 

"I have two of them, thankfully," said Childermass. 

Aunt Greysteel's expression was at first unreadable, but she smiled grudgingly at Childermass. 

"That you do, I suppose. I will leave you to it, then. You know where to find us, if there is need." She ruffled Segundus' hair after all and then left the two men in the room alone. Childermass closed the door and walked to the bed. 

"It seems I am assigned to stay with you all evening, Mr Segundus." 

Segundus, as Childermass' words hit him, began to cry. 

"What?" asked Childermass. Segundus covered his face with his hands and took a moment to collect himself. 

"I was very scared this morning and it's been a long day. I think I'm just relieved to see you for a moment." Childermass sat on the bed and rested a hand on Segundus' leg. 

"Dr Greysteel says you will recover, if you stay put." 

"I have no choice there. I don't think I could stand if I wanted." 

"Go back to sleep now. I've been assured you'll feel worlds better in the morning."

Segundus rolled to his side facing Childermass and closed his eyes. He took a few deeps and seemed to Childermass on the verge of sleeping when he opened his eyes again. 

"Were you...did you change me from my clothes earlier?" 

"I did. I thought you were asleep." 

"I remember that you kissed me." 

"I did that too." 

Childermass leaned back against the headboard of the bed. Segundus looked up at him and sighed again like he had that morning, asleep against his shoulder. 

"Go on to sleep." 

There was little chance of them being disturbed as they were and Segundus fell asleep after reaching for Childermass' hand to hold. Childermass waited until he was sure Segundus was deep in sleep and then he unlaced their fingers and went next door to his room. 

He thought that he should leave a letter, but that would be too dangerous. He did not want to place that burden on Segundus when he was gone. There were, after looking, no pen and paper any way. He went back to Segundus and locked the door between their rooms and put the key on the beside table. There were hours yet, anyway, until he had to decide how he would go. 

Childermass slept on the floor again that night, but much less peacefully than he had the night before. He knew this time that he had to wake, and early.  


Before sunrise, he dressed. Segundus had slept all night and still slept.

John Childermass reached into his pocket before he left the room and pulled out a small bundle that was always there next to his cigarettes, always close to him until this moment. He put it on the beside table next to Segundus' wrist watch that ticked up at him, reminding him of nothing so much as condescending sermon, and then, he left. 

 

Childermass had not counted on that Flora might guess what he would do, but when he saw her waiting in the living room as he came down the stairs, he knew that he should have. She wore different clothes than the ones she had the day before; a blue dress with still a bit of girlishness to it. Childermass could see that she had woken and dressed with the intention of having this meeting. 

"Miss Greysteel," said Childermass. He did not stop walking and continued to move toward the door, but she stepped in front of him.

"None of that. Where are you going?" 

"I have important business. It is also very dangerous. Mr Segundus-" 

Flora put her hands on her hips. 

"John is ill. He can't come with me and I can't stay." 

"Like hell." 

Childermass sighed. 

"I will return for him. You must know that." 

Flora peered behind Childermass up the stairs. When she spoke, her voice was low. 

"Was I mistaken? I thought I saw love between the two of you. Was it only he, after all?" 

Childermass' face set into a deep frown. Flora had not thought that a face like Childermass' would let itself show fear, but did, and clearly. 

"Be quieter, please. For John's sake if nothing else." 

"This is my home, John Childermass. I am allowed to ask a question of you, if I like. And to look out for the welfare of a sick guest." 

Childermass crossed his arms over his chest and looked anxiously around the empty living room like there might be other people hiding in it. 

"You know the answer to that question. He knows as well, more importantly. I have- I have left him something to ease the hurt." 

"I will not let you leave until you have gone back upstairs and told him that you intend to leave without him." 

For a moment, they stood and stared at one another.

"You do not want to be unkind to him," said Flora. "I know it." 

Chidlermass took in a deep breath and his eyes closed in exhaustion. When he opened them again, he turned to the stairs. 

 

Segundus was awake when he got to the room. He was awake and he stared at the bundle that sat next to his watch.

"John? What is this?" 

He picked up the dirty cards and turned them over in his hands, like he would find new meaning in why he had them instead of their owner. 

"You know." 

"Of course I do but what I don't know is why you have left them. I cannot read your cards." 

Childermass found himself looking slightly away from Segundus as he spoke, unable to watch his face as he said what he said next. 

"I intend to leave, for just a few days. You will be well by the time I return and then we can go home. It's better. I left them so that you would know-" 

Segundus shoved the cards toward Childermass' hands. He looked away now, as Childermass' eyes finally met his. His chest shook as struggled to stay calm, and then he forced himself to look back. 

"Take them with you, please. I don't want a token, thank you, even one as significant as these." 

Segundus' wrist watch on the beside table ticked away several seconds. 

"It was kindly meant." 

"I understand that was how it was meant, John Childermass." 

Segundus continued to hold the cards out to Childermass and Childermass continued to stand in front of him, not taking them. 

"If you think you must go, there is no way I can keep you. But think better of me than that I'm a man so easily pushed to the side, so easily placated when told he's not important." 

Childermass took the cards and put them in his pocket. For a moment, his resolve buckled. Segundus, minutes after waking, had a face pink with sleep. The guest bed at the Greysteel's was large and the pillows and blankets left by Aunt Greysteel were numerous and sat in the middle of them, he looked every bit as ill as he was, and very small besides. Childermass was chided for his silence by the wristwatch again. 

"That was never what I meant. Surely you can see that." 

"It may not be what you meant, but it is what you've said." 

"I am only doing this-" said Childermasss. "Never mind. You don't want to hear it. I will see you soon, John. "

Segundus waited until the second after the door had closed before he left himself begin to sob. 

 

Flora still waited downstairs for him and Childermass walked past her in a huff and to the door. He grabbed his coat from the peg next to it and pulled it on like he was in a fight with it. 

"Well, Miss Greysteel, it's done. You have what you wanted." 

"You can still choose to stay." 

"No. I cannot. I was wrong to ask to him to come with me because I preferred to have him close. I can see that. I'll leave him in safety like I always should have." 

Childermass pulled on his coat and reached back into his pockets for the bundle of cards he had attempted to leave with Segundus. 

"When he is ready, can you make sure he gets these?" 

Flora stared at them, the dirty bundle of disparate ripped and worn papers held out to her, and took the cards tentatively in her own hand. Childermass nearly grimaced when he held them over, but stopped when he saw that he was noticed. Flora's first thought was to drop to the cards, though she knew they weren't hot. There was the unmistakable air of importance them that burned into her skin. Flora was not sure if she felt the personal importance of the cards, or if it was something magical that she felt, as she was sure she held a magical implement in her hand. She put them in the pocket of her skirt quickly to be rid of the feeling of them against her skin and looked up at Childermass.

"You do intend to return, don't you?" 

"If I am alive to do so, I will, yes." 

Flora began to say his name, but Childermass had already opened the door. She stopped in the middle of speaking. 

"Tell him," said Childermass, "that if something happens to me, he'll find the cards may be a bit more open to him. They'll want a new owner." 

"I will tell him no such thing!" said Flora. 

Childermass stepped through the door like he hadn't heard her and the, the door shut. She hurried up the stairs in hopes of arriving to Segundus before her aunt discovered he was awake. 

 

Segundus slept all day after Childermass left. Sometimes he thought someone came into the room but when they did, he stayed still until heard the door close again and then he continued to stay still until sleep overtook him. This was not difficult. The seconds where he was nearly awake were what was difficult. 

Then, there was, very clearly, a voice. 

"Oh dear, I thought he was getting better." 

That was Aunt Greysteel. He hadn't realized he was awake again until he heard her speak. 

"I must admit, I'm a little worried." 

Dr Greysteel was there too, apparently. Segundus' head hurt and he still felt sweaty and feverish. He wanted a bath, but he knew he was too weak to have one on his own and there was no one to help him now. If Childermass were here, that would be a job he could do, with no one to ask the first question about it. But Childermass was gone.

There were a few more noisy whispers from above him. Segundus opened his eyes to make them go away. 

"Ah, John," said Dr Greysteel. "Good to see you awake." 

"Sorry if I've worried you." 

"Nothing of it. Nothing of it. Have you eaten?" 

"He has not!" said Aunt Greysteel. 

"Can you have something arranged, Louisa?" 

Aunt Greysteel, given a job, eagerly left the beside to find food for Segundus. Dr Greysteel carried his medical bag, which he set on the bed and then he sat down next to it. 

"Have you any new symptoms, son?"

Segundus shook his head. Greysteel produced the thermometer and Segundus opened his mouth. 

"Good." 

He was quiet while he waited for Segundus' temperature to register and when it did, he studied the thermometer for a moment and then sighed. 

"Your fever has gone a down a bit. And some of your color has returned. But you should eat if you want to get well and return home soon." 

Segundus nodded again. 

"I will try. Thank you." 

"Flora tells me that Mr Childermass had to leave?" 

There was no way he could speak about that, so he said nothing and stared in front of him. 

"You should be well by the time he returns. But please, John, eat." 

Greysteel cleaned the thermometer in silence that was broken only when his sister came back in the room bearing a tray with a plate of toast and another glass of water. 

"I will check on you in the morning," said Greysteel as he clasped his bag shut. He was a few seconds longer stepping away from the bed than Segundus would have thought and he left the room with clear feeling of not having said something he had wanted to.

Aunt Greysteeal did not leave until he had eaten a full slice of toast and drank a large glass of water. Segundus complied largely to get the rest of the evening alone as he was sure he would not be left by himself if he did not make at least a small show of being less unwell. He was grateful for the care, but did not want to see other people. Or, most of them. There was one he wanted to see, but that man was who knew where. It took nearly an hour, but Aunt Greysteel was convinced enough to leave him with another glass of water and an assurance that she would not mind being woken if he needed anything. 

When the door closed, Segundus turned over onto his back. 

They were still there. Right above him, on the nightstand. 

Segundus wanted to put the cards somewhere he couldn't see them but he had not been able to face the idea. They were a teasing reminder of the absence of their owner, but all that Segundus had of him at the moment. 

He sat up for the first time since that morning and took the cards in his hand. 

When Flora had come to his room after Childermass left, he hadn't wanted to hold them or have anything at all to do with them. But she had left them where they were and now, he was glad of it.

The cards smelled of tobacco after staying in Childermass' pocket next to his cigarettes every day for years. Segundus picked them up and slid off the rubber band wrapped around the middle. 

He had watched Childermass do this many times. They had been spread across their kitchen table, their living room floor, their bedspread. John and John had laid in bed one night, Segundus leaned against Childernass' chest, with the cards spread in front of them while Childermass explained explained the meaning of each. 

Segundus flipped through them and laid three out in front of him. 

One was a card Childermass had drawn on a bit of cardboard. Segundus could not remember its name at first, but he studied it and decided Childermass had drawn this with his left hand. It was a sketch of the sun, drawn with a pensive face, and two children standing underneath. 

He laid out three more and found a card Childermass had drawn with his right hand. This one's name came to him easily as it featured four cups. There were, in the lines there used to draw them, the unmistakable traces of being drawn with John Childermass' right hand, likely while a cigarette was held in his left, 

That he could interpret well enough; the small curves and strokes and tell-tell smudges that gave away which hand Childermass used when he wrote or drew. Two months with the man had taught him that.  


But the cards showed Segundus nothing else. 

He stacked them again and secured them with the rubber band. 

On the top was another that Segundus studied for signs of being drawn with one of Childermass' hands, a card with five swords. This one he could read at first, though he looked for those secret indications of Childermass' handwriting. 

Segundus lay back down in bed and again. He pulled the covers around himself and he closed his eyes, he realized his hands smelled like John's cigarettes. 

*********

There was a knock at the door an hour later and Segundus nearly groaned out loud but thought better of himself. His broken heart was not the Greysteel's fault and they had been nothing but kind to him. 

"I'm fine, Miss Greysteel," he said. "Thank you very much, but I'm tired." 

"I think I might be a different Miss Greysteel than you were expecting." 

The voice from the other side of the door was Flora's and not her Aunt's. 

"Oh." Segundus sat up in the bed. "Please, come in." 

When Flora came in the room, he saw that she had a book in her hand. 

"I told my Aunt I was coming to read to you," she explained, glancing down at the thin and worn book. "I hope you don't mind company."

"No, please. It's very nice of you to think of me." 

Flora sat on the bed and put the book beside her. It was "Le Petite Prince". Segundus had been grown when it was published and had never read it, though he had seen it in shop windows, translated into English. 

"Do you read French, Miss Greysteel?" 

He could not but think of Childermass then, of the time he had first realized Childermass understood the language, when he caught him distracted by a conversation by a French couple at the table next to them at a restaurant. Segundus picked up the book from the bed and flipped through a few pages. 

"Yes, and speak and write it as well. My mother was French. I didn't plan to read, in truth, Mr Segundus. I only told my aunt that as an excuse to speak to you in private. I'm afraid it rather got her hopes up more than I had thought." 

"Her hopes?' 

"I believe she despairs of finding someone nice for me now, after the business with Strange. And she likes you a lot. You a very different magician from the last one we knew." 

Segundus felt himself begin to blush. 

"Don't worry. I haven't told. And I do understand you, John." 

His blush deepened and he set the book back down. 

"I feel like I should apologize for something now. For- for taking advantage of your kindness. You would have had every right to ask us- to ask me- to leave your home. Most people would have." 

"I'm afraid that's an apology I can't accept. Because you've done nothing wrong." 

They both looked away as Segundus' eyes filled with tears and he struggled to hold them back. 

"I wanted to tell you something, as a new friend," said Flora. 

"Yes?' 

"Mr Childermass said something to me before he left that I feel you should know." 

Segundus' eyes darted over to the cards and back to Flora. 

"He does intend to return to you, but only if he is alive to do it. Wherever he's gone, he thinks there's at least a chance he won't return. I'm sure that shouldn't be taken lightly. I thought you should know, if you didn't." 

Segundus nodded, but he could not speak. 

"You must not do anything rash while you're still sick. But John? When you are well, if he isn't back, I will help you find him." 

Segundus blinked away the beginning of tears. 

"I don't know what to say, Flora." 

"You don't need to say anything. It's a lonesome thing, to love a magician, isn't it?"

Segundus nodded. 

"And to be one." 

 

John Childermass slept in the car that night. 

He lay in the front seat and instinctively, he reached into his pocket for the cards that were not there. He grunted when he remembered and produced his cigarettes instead. 

He did not regret what he had done, except that they were the the best way to see how Segundus was while he was gone. If he had a basin and water, he would take a moment find Segundus that way, though Segundus would likely be prickly about it if he were to find out. 

There was another spell he could do though, to see a very different person. 

There was always a mirror in the front glove compartment of his car, and other magical odds and ends for when there was need of doing a spell in a hurry. 

Childermass had seen Norrell do this spell a number times and in his search for Lascelles had performed it numerous times. He lit a cigarette and said the words for the spell that would show him what his enemy did in a stream of smoke.

There was only black on the mirror's surface. He listened for a moment, to see if there other ways to discern where Lascelles might be, but there was nothing.  


He reversed the spell on the mirror and put it back. When his cigarette was done, he slept for a few hours and then woke to drive again.


	11. The Runaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Segundus and Flora head off to find a surely in danger John Childermass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some time off this week, hence two updates.

Three days later, Segundus was well enough to join the Greysteel family for dinner in the evening. 

Childermass had not returned. The topic, that Childermass had not returned while Segundus' health had, hung over the dinner discussion without ever being expressly introduced. Segundus felt that everyone made a purposeful effort not mention it and he was not sure at all what they, besides Flora, thought of him or of the situation. 

"You should be well enough to return home tomorrow, if you like," said Dr Greysteel. He took a moment to put down his fork and pick up his napkin while he thought of what to say next. "But you may stay, until Mr Childermass returns, if you like." 

Segundus pushed a bit of his dinner around on his plate. He was uncertain to how to respond since he could not express the special sadness he felt at Childermass' absence or at the thought that he would have to return home without him. He was aware that he must not look too sad over it but was not sure how to do that. 

"Thank you," he said. "I'll think about it and let you know tomorrow what I decide, if that's okay?" 

Aunt Greysteel was quick to chime in that she would be very happy for him stay as long as he liked. Dr Greysteel offered understanding nods. 

The rest of the meal was quiet and Segundus was glad to not have any more questions to answer about his plans, plans that revolved around moving on without John Childermass. 

He was well enough now that after dinner he didn't go to his room but stayed with the rest of the family in the drawing room. 

Flora sat in a chair by the window and wrote in a small journal. Her aunt watched her and tried to ask a few questions about what it was that kept Flora's attention, which Flora deflected gently without answering in much detail at all. 

 

It was finally late enough for Segundus to go back to the room that had been his for the better part of a week. The evening had worn him down and he was nothing but relieved to close the door and be by himself, where there was no one to watch him. 

The suitcase he had packed at home when he thought he would be traveling with Childermass sat on the chair, full of the clothes he had folded in their bedroom what seemed likes ages ago now. The last few days had changed him; from a man who packed the suitcase with arms around his middle and lips at his neck, to one who watched it in a room alone, alone but for a deck of cards. 

He knew that he should leave tomorrow, but most of him did not want to admit that he had gotten better and Childermass had not come back. He did not want to return to Starecross alone, to the place where he had let himself grow used to company, to the sound of another person's voice. He did not want to go where they would not be any more. 

He sat on the bed and took the cards of Marseilles from the nightstand, like he did each night. 

When he saw John Childermass again, he intended to return them, and tell him again how angry he was that he had been left with a token of a man instead of that man himself. But Childermass would know, by looking at him, that it had worked. They had been a comfort. 

He still could no more read them than he ever had, but he liked the worn feel of them. He liked to think of all the times Childermass' fingers had run across them. 

Segundus flipped through them, looking at the now very familiar pictures over and over until he was tired. He put the cards under his pillow and waited until sleep ended the day for him. 

A few hours after falling asleep, Segundus woke to Flora Greysteel standing by his bed, her hand on his shoulder. 

"John. John, wake up.' 

He opened his eyes, shocked at the darkness and at Flora's presence. From what he could see she was dressed in smart trousers and a blouse and did not seem to have to have been to sleep at all. 

"Flora! What time is it?" 

"Just after 1:00 AM. It's time for us to leave, John. We're going to find Childermass." 

Segundus sat up.

"He did not want to come back for me," he said. 

"You can't believe that. I barely know the man and I am frightfully certain that he meant that he would be back if he were alive to return. He hasn't, and I am worried for you and for him."

Segundus had not wanted to think that. Of the two, being scorned was far easier to accept than the idea of Childermass not being alive, or in some trouble that kept him away. 

"Do you have a plan?" he asked

"Beyond finding John Childermass?" 

"To find John Childermass." 

"We can figure that out, I think, once we have left the house, which we won't be able to do if someone hears us." 

Segundus thought of the cards, of the morning Childermass had handed them to him and he had given them back. He knew that Flora was right. Childermass had not returned because he did not want to, but because he wasn't able. 

"Let me change," he said. "We can leave in ten minutes." 

 

Segundus sneaked down the stairs of the Greysteel's home in the dark and the quiet of the time where night and morning mingled. 

Flora waited by the door, a small suitcase of her own in her hands. 

"I'm afraid," she whispered, "that this is going to cause a bit of a scandal. I will stay here if you want; if that will cause less trouble for you." 

She waited for Segundus to understand her meaning. 

"Oh," he said when it hit him. "You're afraid people will think we have run away together. As...as lovers." 

Flora nodded. 

"I know that's what they'll think. I'm really the only one who stands to lose in this though, John." She looked down at her feet and pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I'll explain to Father and my aunt that there was no wrong doing, and they won't blame you. But, I'm afraid we won't be able to avoid at least a little talk if someone outside of the house finds out. Likely, quite a lot of talk, considering my history with magicians." 

"But do you want to come?"

"You're my friend. And I want to help."

Segundus smiled softly at her. 

"If you want to come, I would be glad to have you." 

 

Minutes later, John Segundus was in a very awkward position. That was in the passenger seat of a car that Flora was in the process of driving away with without the permission of its owner, her father.

"Do you even have a driver's license, Flora?" 

"No, but neither do you."

"And you do know how to drive?"

Flora smiled. 

"It's the not the first time I've a taken a secret drive, I must admit."  


Segundus held the cards as they drove. He looked down at them and in his mind, he explained to them that they were looking for John, so they could be returned to him. He didn't think to feel silly about it at all, about asking something of an inanimate object, especially a magical one. He had seen John implore them a number times, and just as many he had seen him grumble or raise an eyebrow like they could see him and understand his frustration with them. Segundus wasn't sure what indication the cards ever gave that they had heard or felt like responding. 

"Do you have any idea where he could be? Any place to start looking?" 

"He wants to find Henry Lascelles," said Segundus. "He's trying to understand what happened to Strange and Norrell and he thinks Lascelles killed Christopher Drawlight over information that might help." 

"That's not very useful for me, unfortunately. I don't know either of those men." 

"Me either. But from what John has said, Lascelles is very dangerous. He thinks he might be even more so now." 

"Do you think that you should try the cards? See if they have anything to say?"

Segundus nodded. There was nothing to be lost at this point. He pulled them from his pocket and plucked one from the top. 

The nine of swords told him nothing, but he thought he remembered John frowning over that one before. Was it a bad card, or had he just not expected to see it at that time, or not expect to see it sitting next to a particular other card? He showed it to Flora. 

"Well," she said. "I don't know about you, but that's like Greek to me. Nice drawing though."

"I think I remember John saying something about this one once. About God, and judgement maybe?" 

Flora tapped her finger on the side of the steering wheel. 

"We've got nothing else. I say perhaps, we start with churches."

It was as good an idea as any, and Segundus agreed. 

They stopped for breakfast after a while on the road at a restaurant that was only just opened for the morning. They got kind smiles; a pretty young woman and a shy man a bit older. They were the only ones there; the first cups of tea poured, the first smells of food. Segundus could not help but be aware of how different the world was in the company of a woman, how much friendlier the glances they got seemed, like he had been included in some way he had not before. But each time he relaxed, he realized the lie behind his newfound comfort and shifted in his seat in guilt. 

"It's going to be alright, John," said Flora. She yawned hugely, but she was young and she didn't look tired at all, Segundus thought. 

He set the cards next to him on the table. 

They were quiet while they ate. Flora had two large cups of coffee for the day of driving ahead and when they were done, the cards of Marseilles went into a different set of pockets than they were used to. 

 

He stayed now in a different sort of place, when he did not have Segundus to think of. 

It had been necessary, after a few days, to find a place to shower, to neaten his clothes. A place with a bed to sleep, with a pillow and a blanket, no matter how old and stained they might be. He didn't want to admit that he was tired, but he was. Three nights in a car, the driver's seat as his bed, had worn him down. If anything, the hotel wore him further. 

It had a musty smell and the showers, which all the guests shared, were dark and had pockets of mold in the corners. Something dripped constantly in there and the working lights took turns flickering. His room was not much better; bare, a slightly greasy feel to everything. The sounds that floated up through the window and under the door were jostling and urgent. 

There would be a letter, waiting for John when he arrived back to Starecross. It had taken ages to get right, ages to put what he needed to into a few safe sentences that wouldn't give away too much if someone besides John were to see it. 

He wished John well, thanked him for his hospitality letting him live at Starecross with him for the last few months. He said that he regretted the recent turn of events and that he hadn't been able to say good bye properly before. It had been painful to write like he was nothing more than a friend and lodger and he knew it would be painful for John to read, but he could not help it. It was better than nothing and once he stopped being angry, John would be able to read through the lines well enough. 

Childermass didn't mention that he wanted Segundus to have all of his things, if the worst should happen, which he did. He planned to sort that some time before he found Lascelles, but if he didn't, there was a second letter in the car addressed to Segundus that explained as much. The most important thing Segundus already had. The rest did not worry him so much. Segundus needed the cards. 

Childermass knew he would pay for whatever he found out from Lascelles. He didn't mind that, but he needed it to be worth it in the end, for the information he gathered to get back to Segundus who could do something with it. The cards would hopefully open up to Segundus a bit more once they knew he was gone. It was currently John Childermass' only source of comfort going forward. 

Sleep in the rickety bed was hard to come by after all. He had slept in worse places time and time again before this, but he knew the problem was that he had let himself get too used to the feeling of another body in the bed. He worried about Segundus when Segundus was not next to him, shifted to make the extra space in the bed seem not so much. Childermass had never thought it a thing he would be capable of it, this sort of sentimental feeling, but it was. He was faced with the evidence of another sleepless night in proof of it. 

He smoked to pass the time, laying naked on the bed. Next door, someone walked around humming, shuffling their feet. He missed the quiet of Starecross on an evening, the scratch of pen on papers being graded. 

I didn't listen to that enough, when I was there, he thought. He lit another cigarette. 

John would be fine, when he was gone. It wasn't a choice he liked to make, but John was strong and John would do what was right. He was one of the few people Childermass trusted or ever had. 

It was his only source of comfort. 

 

Segundus and Flora stopped in the early afternoon so that they could rest for the evening. It was a nicer hotel that than the one he and John had stayed in earlier in the week, chosen by Flora for a good night's rest. 

She made a phone call from the hotel lobby to tell her Father that she was fine. Segundus watched her tap her foot and cross her arms. When she hung up, it was with a clatter than rang through the lobby. 

"Well," she said. She slumped down into the chair next to him, pushing her hair away from her face. "That's over with." 

"Is he very angry?" 

"Not with you. I told him I followed you out." 

"But that's not true." 

"Of course not. But I could I hardly tell him what was really going on, now could I?"

"I suppose not." 

"I'll make it right later, if I can. And if not..." 

Flora leaned her head back against the chair and yawned again. 

"Let's get rooms, shall we?"

Segundus thought he would be happy if he never saw another hotel after this. He settled into his room while across the hall, Flora was in hers. He didn't ever want to sleep in a bed in a room that wasn't his and sit alone, waiting for the next thing. 

He was tired too and found that sleep was easy, once John's cards were settled under the pillow.


	12. The Widow Bullworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass makes a visit to Maria Bullworth.  
> Segundus and Flora continue their search.

He didn't wake until morning, not once.

Segundus missed home from the second he opened his eyes and looked around him at the hotel room. He wanted to be back there, but back there like he had been before, when it was he and John. It had only become home then, anyway, after John had arrived and their relationship had begun in earnest. It was, because of John, the first place he had lived in since he was a child that he could say that about, that it was home; a place that it hurt him to leave, a place where his heart truly lived. Segundus was not sure at all that it be would home without him, if it would not become little more than this hotel.

Segundus tried not to slip into nostalgia as he dressed to meet Flora for breakfast and readied himself to leave the hotel. He brushed his hair and did up the buttons of his shirt and his tie. Looking in the mirror, he thought for sure that he was more grey now than he had been before he and John had set out, like each night aged him.

The last thing he did was bring the cards from their place under the pillow and put them in his pocket.

He knocked on Flora's door at the time they had decided on the night before and they went down to breakfast together, suitcases in hands.

"Oh goodness," said Flora as they took their table at breakfast. She gave a quick look behind her to some people they had passed on their way in.

"What?"

"Oh nothing. I'm worrying a bit too much, I'm sure, but after those pictures in the newspapers, I always wonder if someone has recognized me."

Segundus looked around the dining room. A man who had been looking at Flora looked away quickly when he saw Segundus and back down at his breakfast.

"Would you like to leave?"

"Not until I've eaten," said Flora. "Though I would like to have a talk one day with whomever managed to get those photos of me and Jonathan Strange in the papers."

The man did not look up at again at Flora while they ate.

Segundus had known of course, of the pictures. He was friends with Strange and had seen Flora's name in Strange's letters long before he saw her picture in a paper and could a face to the name. He never would have thought, those months ago, that he would be sitting across from her at a breakfast table.

Soon they were back on the road in Dr Greysteel's car, the plan to stop at the first church they saw and look for any signs of Childermass or Henry Lascelles.  
The lack of a more concrete plan made Segundus weary as they set out, but he knew they had to start somewhere.

It was a bright day and his spirits lifted a bit with the sun on his face as they drove. The cards of Marseilles sat beside him in his seat. After having the cards on him for several days now, their presence reassured him more and more, like they had become a part of him, something he could share with Childermass.

They stopped at two churches that morning with no sign of either of the men they sought. This was not surprising but Segundus found being active was good for him, as was not being in a hotel, even if there was currently little to show for their day's work.

Flora moved through the day indefatigably. She was another source of comfort. He felt safe with her like he did with John, with Mr Honeyfoot and Emma. Segundus knew that he had made a new friend and a true one.

"I believe that Henry Lascelles and John had a very bad working relationship," Segundus told Flora as they walked out of the second church.

"Really?"

"The day that we..." Segundus paused, lost in the memory of that morning, the two of them side by side with magic flowing between them, mingling and warming as it rushed back and forth. "The day we lifted the enchantment on Emma, John arrived at Starecross with the most horrible cut on his face. Lascelles did it to him."

"Well, that's good to know. Looking for a man who cuts faces up, apparently. If we see anyone with their faces slashed open, we'll make sure to follow them."  


It was hard not to think as the day went on about how long it had been since he had seen Childermass or where he was now or if he was fine, wherever he was. If he had cut one man's face as he had John's and killed another man, there was no question that Henry Lascelles was dangerous.

They got sandwiches for lunch and ate sitting on the warm hood of the car.

"May I ask you something, John?"

Flora looked around her. The spring day was bright but they were alone in the sunshine.

"Sure."

"How did...Oh, you're going to be so cross with me, I think, for my questions. How did you know, with him, when you were in love?"

"I guess it happened like when any two other people are in love."

Flora began to blush.

"Of course," she said. She gave him an apologetic smile.

"I really can't say much in comparison. I've only ever loved men, and John has been very special to me."

"He is your lodger now?"

"Yes. I mean, he is in name. It is how we live together. We had already...We had already begun some sort of relationship before then. We...uh, resumed it when I offered him a place to stay after Norrell's homes disappeared."

"I see," said Flora. "And you have fallen in love."

Segundus nodded. That was what it was. He did not question it. They did not say it often, but the evenings where he could look up from his grading and see Childermass in the same room, or the long baths and being wrapped in towels after, that's what it was. The lessening of his sadness when he looked at John's cards was what it was.

"Good for you, I say."

"I remember thinking, as a young man, that this would be lost to me," said Segundus softly. The cards sat next to him on the hood of the car and he picked them to have the feeling of them in his hand. "I never imagined I would get to have someone who cared enough to leave something like this."

"So, you aren't angry with him any more?"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't say that. But I am very glad I get to be angry at him at all. I thought I might at best get a night or two with someone here or there, and that one day the pain of being lonely might get less. And now..."

He looked down at the stack of cards, each drawn by the man he loved, who had left them with. He had left and Segundus' heart was heavy at that, but John had left a part of him. He had left a part of his magic.

Segundus had not thought that a day could be as eventful as the one he had done magic for the first time had been. He had not thought that he could begin a day in his plain little bed, as ordinary as he had ever been and finish it a magician and a man who had brought to that bed another a man, one asleep next to him. But it had. He had thought, falling asleep on that day with Childermass squeezed into his little bed with him, that getting his hopes up wouldn't do him any good, but he did. He had let himself imagine the life he had might have as someone who did and taught magic. And he had let himself think then not of a room to stay in, but a house; a house that he would fill his life with.

He would not, he thought, give that up.

 

John Childermass thought he was on the right track now.

Lascelles had slipped and he had let himself be for too long in a place with a mirror. There had only been a second where Childermass could see him and there wasn't much to go on from that, but he was some place in a white room with stained glass making a jagged pattern of colors across his face, lit from behind by the sun. He was frantic, wherever his was, his pale eyes wild. And then, he had run. It wasn't much to go on, but if he worked fast, he might be able to pick up something that would help him stay on the track.

It was the first time he has seen Lascelles since the day Jonathan and the pillar of darkness had come for Norrell, the day he had, for a time, been the recipient of wound on his face given to him by that man. It was the first time he had seen Lascelles since the day he had done magic with John Segundus and freed Emma Pole from her enchantment.

It was only a glimpse, but it was enough to tell him what he had suspected; that since then Lascelles had become even more dangerous.

He had one other thing to go on, one had had told no one of.

Christopher Drawlight's letters.

Drawlight had hidden them well, as a secretive and scared man would. But Childermass had found them. He had found all of them in the little hiding places around the mold stained flat that had been Drawlight's last home.

And now he knew about Maria Bullworth.

 

Widowhood had not done anything to reduce the circumstances of Mrs Bullworth.

Childermass' car parked outside was the only shabby thing at all about the house, besides the presence of John Childermass inside of it.

From what he could see of the house from the front door, it was a quiet place, a clean place, a place that did not generally see people like John Childermass. But he was allowed in, after the man who answered the door disappeared for a moment to confer with the lady of the house.

Childermass didn't know a thing about fashion or about women's hair or what was good decorating or not, but when he knew when a thing was expensive and new. And Mrs Bullworth's house was full of expensive and new things and the clothes she wore fit those descriptions as well. John Childermass was invited to sit with a cool wave of her her hand.

"You worked with Gilbert Norrell?" she asked. She did not pour him tea but let the young woman standing near her chair do it.

"I did."

Mrs Bullworth lifted her nose in the air and crossed her hands in her lap.

"Good riddance, I say. He and Strange both."

Childermass allowed her that. She was not the only person to think such a thing, he was sure. 

"Though I am sorry about Mrs Strange," Mrs Bullworth said. She did not say it exactly to Childermass but let the sentence out into the room to wander. "It is always the women, in the end, who suffer, isn't it?"

Childermass allowed her that as well.

"Mrs Bullworth. You knew before I came here that Christopher Drawlight was dead, didn't you?"

Mrs Bullworth looked up at him. She was younger than he had thought before he arrived; much younger. Though why he had thought it he didn't know. He knew from Drawlight's letters that she had been a lover of Lascelles' and it shouldn't have been a surprise at all to find that she was young and pretty.

"I did," she said.

"Good riddance to him as well?"

Mrs Bullworth sighed.

"You'll probably think that I'm very silly, Mr Childermass, for saying this. You probably already think it, since you obviously know more about me than I do about you. But I can't bring myself to despise Christopher. We were friends, in a way. He knew I was lonely. He knew I had been wronged many times over and he offered to do something. No one had ever done that."

"He lied, Mrs Bullworth. He took your money."

"Oh, I have lots of that."

Mrs Bullworth looked at the girl who stood by her chair.

"Can you ask Nanny to bring Robert, for a moment?" she asked.

The door shut. John Childermass found himself the recipient of a long gaze from the woman sitting across from him.

"You're the kind of man who will find out things. I'll save you a bit of time. Henry was here. I hid him for a night, but that was all I could handle. He frightened me. But I had to do it."

Childermass was going to ask why she thought she had to do this, but door to the drawing room opened again. A black haired woman, hair drawn back tightly, entered holding a half asleep toddler by the arm to keep him standing.

"I see," said Childermass.

The boy crawled into his mother's lap and fell asleep again within seconds and his nanny left in silence.

There were traces of his mother on the boy's face. but there was enough of Henry Lascelles in his blonde hair, in the shape of his eyebrows and the turn of his mouth that Childermass saw clearly Mrs Bullworth's secret.

"My husband knew," said Mrs Bullworth. "At first he was angry, but he was old, Mr Childermass. All that anyone else would ever see was that he left a son behind."

She patted her son's head.

"Henry never cared, of course. I couldn't turn him away though, when he came here earlier in the week. I just see Robert when I look at him now."

"Do you know where he went, when he left?"

Maria Bullworth looked down at her son curled in her lap and then, after a sigh, addressed her guest again.

"Mr Childermass. Did you not wonder why it was that you were accepted so quickly into my home?"

It was not a question he had been prepared for.

"I was not surprised to see you here. Henry is looking for you as fervently as you seem to be looking for him."

 

Sunset found Flora and Segundus walking the muddy grounds of a fourth church.

Flora had pulled her hair up as they squinted into the new grass and the budding wildflowers and peeked into the windows.

"I'm sorry, John," said Flora. "It doesn't look like this has been a very productive idea at all."

"Well, it's certainly better than nothing."

Flora sighed and sat down in the grass, her head leaned back against the wall of the church.

"What do you say? Another card?

Segundus sat next to her on the ground.

"Flora," he said. "I don't know..."

"What?"

"You're going to think I'm foolish, I'm sure, but I'm very scared of bad news of some sort. I don't want to go back to the way things were, before him. Does that make me weak, that I don't want to be on my own?"

"No," said Flora. "Not at all."  
Segundus pulled the cards from his pockets.

He had grown from the habit of attending church as an adult, expect perhaps on Christmas if he was lonely and wanted the company of others. The proximity of the church was what did it, he guessed. For a second, he prayed, or whatever it meant that he asked something larger than himself for help. Childermass would have called it magic, he was sure; energy going out into the world in hopes of bringing a change, of doing something.

What he said was that he wanted to help.

What he said was that he did not John to go.

The change was very subtle when he pulled the first card. It was another from the suit of swords, the ten. And then, the three of batons.  


John had told him to never expect the cards to scream messages like they were a theater marquee or a newspaper headline. He explained that they were guides at best, but that their best was very good indeed in the right hands.

He felt it then, looking at the two cards he had laid in the grass.

"Flora..."

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure."

He was so poor at explaining what magic felt like. John understood. He had known that John understood from the day they had broken Lady Pole's enchantment together. He had watched John collapse onto the floor as he fell into the magic that had encased the house overnight and he knew then that John understood. It was one of the things they had never needed words for.

"I think that something has changed, maybe."

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"It's just...I think that Mr Childermass thought that might be the case if something were to happen to him. Do you think..."

He could not. He could not let himself think it.

"I think...I think he has found Lascelles. Or will find him soon. It's not good at all, but...in some way, I think that maybe we will overcome."

A breeze blew the cards toward Segundus, into his lap. Flora shivered.

"Do they say that it will be with or without Mr Childermass?"

He could not let himself think it.


	13. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawlight finds a way to put himself at the forefront of the revival of English magic.

Mr Thompson always liked to eat breakfast with his Christopher in the morning before he left. He was a lonely man, thought Drawlight as he poured Mr Thompson's tea. He always drew out breakfast so long that it got boring and he made so many excuses when it came to time to leave. But it didn't matter, not really, not to Drawlight. The man could play at domesticity if he wanted. Mr Thompson had gotten Drawlight the new apartment and he was so much nicer than the man who paid for his last one, even if he tended toward needy. After he poured the tea and let his hand be patted as he drew away, Drawlight went to the front door of the flat for the newspaper and brought it back to the table. Mr Thomson put a hand on his knee under his robe. 

Drawlight picked up his own tea and took a drink as he unfolded the paper but he nearly dropped it again when he began to read.

"What is it, Chris?" asked Mr Thomson. Drawlight forced himself to swallow the scalding mouthful of tea he had inhaled and pushed the paper over in Mr Thompson's direction. 

There was a man on the front page, a scowling, frightened man who looked like he had somehow never had his picture taken in his life and was terrified by what was happening to him. There was someone behind him, a taller person mostly cut from the photo, who seemed to be about to move him from the reach of the camera with a wide, rough looking hand. Drawlight never would have would have thought the perplexed man in the picture under the caption would have done what it said he had. 

"Statues Move in York," the headline read. "Has magic returned to England?" 

Drawlight cursed in a whisper under his breath. 

"Just like the school books," he said. "Though I can't believe that man really did it." 

Mr Thompson leaned over and gave him a kiss on the neck. 

"I didn't know you liked magic, Chris." 

"Magical history was the only thing in school I ever got an A in." 

"Hmmmm?" 

Drawlight pushed Mr Thompson away gently. 

"I want to read," he said. 

"If I could have bet money on the last four words I'd have thought would come out of Christopher Drawlight's mouth..." 

Mr Thompson leaned in for another nuzzle to his neck. 

"Very funny. I'm serious, Richard. Let me read. This is important." 

Mr Thompson pouted, and justifiably so, Drawlgiht knew. 

"I bet it's a fake," Mr Thompson said. 

"Yes, yes. Eat your breakfast." 

Mr Thompson didn't like being ignored, but his own house was big and empty and Drawlight knew he wouldn't leave, especially not over something this small. He finished reading the article quickly, still not able to believe what it said. Some reclusive man in Yorkshire had made a cathedral full of statues move in the small hours of the morning. 

If it were true, thought Drawlight, it would change everything. 

He forced himself back to Mr Thompson in thanks for his patience and gave him a few kisses to make up for ignoring him. Drawlight was soon able to move him out of the flat once he was happy again, and then, he dressed and set to work to find out more about this Norrell and if there was any chance that magic was back in England. 

 

The party had gone later than expected and the sun was nearly up. Drawlight leaned against Mr Thompson as he reached in his pocket for the key.  
"Steady, Chris," he said under his breath as Drawlight reached to play with his tie and pulled their faces closer together. But he said it with a smile. 

Mr Thompson opened the door and the two men stumbled inside. He caught Drawlight as he tripped and then held him like that, looking affectionately down at him, before leaning in to kiss him. 

They were interrupted by a noise from the sofa, a small voice saying "Chris? Is that you? Are you home?" 

Mr Thompson almost dropped Drawlight to the floor but caught him as the girl sat up on the sofa. Drawlight gripped Mr Thompson's coat to pull himself up.

"Oh, it is you!" she said. 

"Marianne?" 

The girl, dark haired and wearing a dress wrinkled by a night of sleep, crawled over the arm of the sofa and ran to her brother. 

"Richard, this is my sister, Marianne," said Drawlight. He had been very drunk and tired seconds ago but the shock knocked most of that from him, clearing his head. 

"I can see that she's your sister. But what is she doing here?" 

Marianne looked up at Mr Thompson. 

"Who are you?" she asked. 

"He's my friend, Richard," said Drawlight. "And he's going to help us get you home before someone notices you're gone and calls the police."

Mr Thompson raised an eyebrow and Drawlight raised one back. 

"Richard." 

"Too many questions. It's too risky." 

"You don't have to talk to anyone or show your face. Just bring us there and I'll find my own way home."

Mr Thompson looked between Drawlight and Marianne and sighed. Just like Drawlight had once eased tension with his his stepfather by looking like his mother, Marianne had done the same by looking like him. 

"Let's go before it gets any later," Mr Thompon muttered. 

"I don't want to leave," said Marianne. "I came all the way here on the bus last night and Chris wasn't even at home." 

"Jesus." Drawlight ran his hands through his hair. "You rode here on the bus and no one stopped you?"

Marianne had just turned nine but was small and looked younger than that by a few years at least. The thought of her alone on the bus at night to get to him frightened him enough that any tiredness or traces of the party vanished completely. Drawlight put his sister into her coat and the three of them left the flat together and went back to Mr Thompson's car. 

"You didn't come to my birthday," said Marianne in explanation of why sneaking from her home had seemed a good idea. "So, after Patsy made me go to bed, I climbed out the window. "

"I'm sorry about the party," said Drawlgiht. "But I did sent a present. There was no need to worry." 

Marianne was quiet in the backseat. 

"Oh," said Drawlight. 

"You didn't get my invitation either, did you?" 

Marianne turned away and used the sleeve of her dress to wipe at her eyes. 

Mr Thompson watched the two of them with a frown. 

"Chris, are you sure this is a good idea? It doesn't-" he lowered his voice. "It doesn't sound like you're welcome." 

"I'm not. But I have to get her home, so that's that." 

"When we go to church, Pops says we have to pray for you," said Marianne. 

"Make sure to tell him thank you very much from me." 

"Should I pray for Richard too?" 

"Oh yes," said Drawlight. "Most definitely." 

Marianne fell asleep on the drive over and as they got to close to Drawlight's step father's house, he had Mr Thompson pull over a few blocks away and let them out. 

"You don't have to stay," he said. "Thanks for your help." 

"No, Chris, it's fine. I want to make sure you get back safe too." 

If they had not been on the street with the sun now risen behind the row of houses facing them, Drawlight thought he might have kissed the man. Instead, he woke his sister and helped her from the car as she was still groggy and wobbly on her feet. He led her to the house and knocked on the door.

The woman he had last seen over three years ago at Christmas and knew then as Miss Emerald answered the door in her nightgown and robe. Drawlight knew that if she were here dressed like that and here this early that she was likely no longer just his sister's nanny. The flash of a wedding band when her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the two of them confirmed it. 

"Christopher! Marianne!" 

Miss Emerald- Mrs Frogge- pulled Marianne in the house gently and into an embrace. Drawlight had liked her the first time they met and he liked her now, holding her step daughter close and visibly shaking with the relief of seeing her safe. 

"She showed up at my flat and stayed the night. I wasn't there so I didn't know. Sorry for any worry." 

He turned to walk away before any trouble was started but his stepfather's new wife called out his name. 

"Christopher. Thank you. I don't know what happened. Her sisters were watching her last night and I guess no one-" 

"I'm just glad she's safe. I won't bother you." 

The new Mrs Frogge sighed. 

"I would invite you in...it's just. Your stepfather. You know." 

"I do." 

Mrs Frogge sighed again and leaned down to kiss the top of Marianne's head. 

"Say goodbye to your brother, Marianne. Quickly now." 

Marianne ran to him and threw her arms around his middle. 

"Don't do that again, alright?" said Drawlight. "Find a phone. Ring my flat, We can- we'll work out something." 

He briefly glanced up at the new Mrs Frogge, She looked behind her into the house with a smooth, subtle glance and then nodded at Drawlight. 

"Next time," he said. "I am going to tell you all about my new friend." 

"Richard?" 

"No. His name is Gilbert and he is a magician. A real one." 

 

Christopher Drawlight stepped out of the house at Hanover Square and into the rain, waving for a cab. 

For once, he was unconcerned about his appearance; his clothes and hair were soaked in moments and he hardly noticed. A passing car splashed him further and he still had no thought but what it would mean if Norrell did this magic tonight and he was there. But first, he had to convince a mother to let her daughter be raised from the dead.

A cab pulled over for him and Drawlight got in quickly. He may not have much noticed the state of his clothes, but the cab driver did. Luckily for Drawlight, nice clothes that had gotten wet were still nice clothes. The cab driver must have had confidence that he could pay because when Drawlight gave him the Wintertowne's address, he started to drive. 

Drawlight had no money on him but he knew the cab wouldn't go anywhere until the driver had been paid so he ran toward the house without sparing a word for him. The driver shouted after Drawlight but the rain beat down so hard he could not make out what was said; likely cursing, vague threats. 

At the door, Drawlight pounded. 

The Wintertowne's maid answered: a tall, pale girl with big green eyes and curls poking out from under her cap. 

Drawlight rushed past her. She was much more polite than the cabby, who he guessed still shouted after him. The brave thing even made a grab for his clothes as he ran into the house, but he slipped away, skidding in his wet shoes and nearly crashing into a side table and making the expensive looking vase there wobble. 

He listened for the sound of crying to find his way to the drawing room. And he found it. 

The poor maid was still on his heels when he threw open the door. 

Mrs Wintertowne and Sir Walter Pole looked up in shock as Drawlight, the maid behind him, slid into the room with a squeak of his surely ruined shoes.

"I'm sorry, m'am," said the maid. "He just ran in!" 

"Someone has to pay the cab!" 

No one yet knew who Drawlight was or why his cab should be paid for, but a thing said with enough authority is often done with little resistance, especially when nerves are already thin. Mrs Wintertowne turned the maid with an absentminded wave of her hand.

"Go find Stephen. He can take care of it." 

Sir Walter, in his exhaustion, nodded and the maid left. When her employer had turned away again, she glared at Drawlight, but he didn't care. 

Drawlight smiled. One problem solved. 

"Mrs Wintertowne. Sir Walter." He inclined his head toward each of them as he addressed them. "My name is Christopher Drawlight. I believe I can help solve your problem." 

"Problem?" asked Mrs Wintertowne. 

"Your daughter." 

Sir Walter stood. 

"Mr Drawlight. I've heard your name and I know a bit about you. I think you should leave now." 

"But, you haven't even heard my news! I just came from Hanover Square. Mr Norrell-"

Walter Pole rubbed his temples and sunk back in his chair, apparently too tired to make Drawlight leave. 

"Now is not the time for this. Now is not the time for Norrell."

"The magician?" asked Mrs Wintertowne. "Why would he be involved in anything?" 

"Oh," said Drawlight. Now that he was stood still, he felt more and more by the second that he was soaked in freezing rain water. He shivered, but his heart pounded in chest. "Oh, he's only offered to bring her back to life, that's all."

Mrs Wintertowne gasped. 

"I promise you, it's possible. I only need to go and tell him to come here. You'll have a daughter again, Mrs Wintertown, and a fiance, Sir Walter, before the sun comes up." 

Drawlight had no idea how long a spell to raise a girl from the dead would take, but it had sounded nice to say.

"Walter-" 

Drawlight stepped toward her and took her hand. She flinched at how cold it was, but did not pull back.

"Mrs Wintertowne, he's gathering the books right now. Wouldn't you like to see your daughter in her wedding dress on Thursday?" Drawlight let a dramatic pause stretch to just the right length and risked leaning toward Mrs Wintertowne before he spoke again. "Mrs Wintertowne, don't you want to hold grandchildren one day?"

Sir Walter's cheeks began to redden with anger and he was on the verge of saying something stern, that much was clear, but Mrs Wintertowne did what Drawlight knew she would and she raised her to mouth and then began to cry. 

"Oh Walter, I don't know..." 

"Mr Drawlight," said Sir Walter tersely. Drawlight knew when to quit a room. He took a step back toward the door, reaching behind him for the handle. 

"Why don't I leave you alone for a moment to think about it?" 

He nodded at both of them and left the room. He stood outside the door, trying to get some meaning from the sound of footsteps and whispers that came from inside. It was only a few minutes before Sir Walter Pole opened the door again. 

"I guess," he said, "that it cannot hurt to try. You can go and get him. But Drawlight?" 

"Yes, Sir Walter?" 

"Norrell pays for your cab home." 

 

When he arrived back to Hanover Square, Drawlight could hardly manage to contain his story. He was already speaking before he threw open the door. 

"You should have been there!" proclaimed Drawlight as he walked into Norrell's drawing room. Henry Lascelles, at the same time, said "What the hell happened to you?" 

Reminded of the state of clothes, Drawlight shivered. 

"Mr Norrell. I did it," he said. "I did it. They want you to come over straight away."

"They what?" 

Lascelles crossed his arms and gave an annoyed roll of his eyes toward Norrell, who had asked the same question. 

"They said you should do it. Come on, get your coat." 

Norrell looked around him frantically and Drawlight, before he could change his mind, stepped up to him and took him by the arm. 

"Let's go, Mr Norrell. The cab is waiting." 

Norrell let himself and the book he clung to be led from the room. Childermass was not around, so Drawlight handed Norrell his coat himself and made him let go of the book one hand at a time to put it on. Drawlight found that talking made for a nice distraction, so he did not stop.

"Oh, Mr Norrell, you should have seen the maid!" he exclaimed. He did an impression of her confusion and the annoyed expression on her face that Norrell was obviously more perplexed than amused by. Drawlight continued on with his story anyway, pausing only to prompt Norrell to remember money for the fare. 

Norrell looked around as if he expected Childermass to come down from the stairs at any moment and tell him to take off his coat and go back to the drawing room. Or perhaps to say that he would come with them, that the plan was good. Drawlight patted Norrell on the arm to ease his nerves as he moved him toward the door. This made Norrell jump. Easing Norrell's nerves was always, thought Drawlight, going to be Sisyphean task. 

Drawlight was extremely glad that Childermass was not there, if he was honest. He was sure that if Childermass were that it would be the first thing he would tell Norrell to do, the putting away the coat and going back inside one. If nothing else, Childermass would want to talk about the magic and Drawlight did not have time for talks about magic. Not when there was magic waiting to be done. 

It was only after the front door opened that Lascelles followed after them, trying not to look like he hurried too much. 

 

Neither of them really wanted another game of cards, but there was nothing else to do while they waited. 

Norrell was upstairs with the dead girl and Drawlight and Lascelles had been forgotten by the rest of the house. Drawlight hoped that once Emma Wintertowne were raised from the dead that some apology would be forthcoming for leaving alone the man whose idea it all been. He stared down at a card and composed the scene in his head.

It was half past one and every light in the house was turned on. There was a radio in the drawing room that Drawlight had switched on earlier but this late, there was nothing on and the only sound that came from it was the occasional cackle of static. Nothing calmed Drawlight, who had begun to get nervous at how long Norrell had been gone. He hadn't let himself think much about what would happen if this all didn't work, but in soggy shoes, listening to static on the radio, he was forced to let the thought in for a moment before he pushed it back out. 

Lascelles yawned at the cards and then, for good measure, at Drawlight, to show him what he thought of being dragged to this house at this hour with nothing to show for it. He lit a cigarette. Drawlight didn't smoke but he wanted a cigarette very much at that moment. It looked very comforting suddenly. 

"If I didn't know better," said Lascelles. "I would think you'd arranged the rain and everything just to make this more dramatic. The whole thing would make a very good horror film." 

"Very funny, Henry. I'll never be able to wear these clothes again." 

Lascelles shrugged. 

"So far, how you look is the only amusement of the night. Although, if Norrell can't bring her back, that will be very funny too."

"No, it won't," muttered Drawlight. For months, he had spread the image of Norrell as powerful magician and of himself as the friend of a powerful magician. If it turned out Norrell wasn't, Drawlight knew he would be a laughingstock. Norrell had to do it. 

Drawlgiht needed something to do so he picked up the cards and started a listless game of solitaire. Lascelles finished one cigarette and lit another. 

"I going to leave if he isn't here by the time this is done," said Lascelles. 

There was a noise from the hallway and Drawlight jumped. Lascelles did too and wasn't able to cover it well because he had to scramble for his cigarette, which he nearly dropped into his lap. 

Norrell looked nearly as bad as Drawlight when he came into the room; his hair a bit sweaty and pushed all around on his head, his face pale. 

"Where are they?" he asked. "Miss Wintertowne wants to see her mother now. " 

Lascelles cursed as he stood but Drawlight was frozen to his seat with joy. 

Norrell had done it. He was soon going to be one of the most powerful men in England. And Drawlight had been the one to help him there.


	14. The Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lascelles is found but what is the price that will be paid?

John Childermass left Mrs Bullworth's more sure than ever that this would not end well for him. Lascelles sought him and he knew what a danger that was. 

He did not drive away after reaching his car, but sat with the sun on his face and thought about which way he would drive, when he drove away. He pulled out a cigarette but did not light it. Instead, he watched the match he had struck to light it, a briefly eager flame, and then blew it out and put the cigarette back in its pack. 

He knew now that he did not have to go to Lascelles. Some part of him had known since he left the Greysteel's and it nagged at him as a cruelty that he chose as he did so consistently. He had a choice and he made it each day when he continued his search instead of turning back. He made it though he knew he left a kind and gentle man lonely, himself away from the home they had only just started to make, a home that Childermass didn't deny that he missed more and more with each solitary day. Though it had only been a few months since he had only his own magic for company, Childermass thought that it now somehow felt less than it had before, now that he had let himself know something different. 

Childermass could leave Lascelles as he was, let him be brought to justice by someone else. He did not want to, but he could leave the job to someone else, or leave it undone and forget the man. He could return to Starecross and to the safety of John Segundus and let this be some other man's problem. Childermass had managed to do well by Drawlight too and he was now buried by his sister, Childermass was sure; put to rest. Childermass had been no great friend of the man's but it was the least Drawlight was deserving of and it was done by him when no one else would.  


But this was an issue of English magic, Childermass was sure, and he could not yet leave it. 

He had been sure of it since the journey from London to Yorkshire on the day they left to outrun Strange at his return to England, sitting across from Lascelles and Norrell in a hotel lobby, watching Lascelles spin secrets poorly. 

Childermass had been sure since his first glimpse of Lascelles, when he caught him off guard in the mirror doing the spell to see his enemy. Childermass had seen a similar expression once, on a fairy road outside a castle, on the face of a man in a ratted uniform holding a gun, a man who called himself the Champion.  


He would discover it. Childermass would discover Lascelles one way or the other and let the man have the meeting Lascelles had wanted since the day he cut Childermass' face while Gilbert Norrell watched. 

There was one last thing to do, however, before this meeting happened and whatever end came to be, came to be. 

When he drove, he watched for a place where he thought there might be a phone. Childermass found a phone box on a street once he reached a small town and he parked and went inside it. The operator was able to find Dr Lancelot Greysteel's home after several minutes of search and then, Childermass waited.  


Louisa Greysteeel answered out of breath, a little too loudly, someone still unsure of how this whole thing worked, someone unused to a phone ringing in her home. 

"Miss Greysteel, it's John Childermass." 

There was silence from the other end and Childermass waited for some sign of a bad connection that didn't arrive and shifted on his feet in the phone box. 

"Miss Greysteel? Are you still there? I was hoping to see how John Segundus was, maybe to speak to him. I had something important to tell him." 

Lousia Greysteel huffed and none too primly. 

"I suppose Mr Segundus is well enough. He left with Flora in the small hours of yesterday morning." 

It was Childermass' turn to fall silent. 

"Did they say where they had gone?" 

"I don't know. I imagine Mr Segundus returned to his home as he was well again. Flora said he left early so as not to disturb us and she followed him, silly girl. I couldn't convince her to come home." 

"I see. Thank you." 

There was a short pause. Louisa Greysteel was not the kind of woman to not return a thank you and though she was annoyed, she did, although with a bite of reluctance. 

"If she calls again, would it be too much to ask to have her tell John..." 

Childermass stopped. He knew there was no good way to finish the sentence. 

"Thank you again, Miss Greysteel. Goodbye." 

When John Childermass returned to his car, he knew with certainty a second thing. He knew from Maria Bullworth that Lascelles sought him and he now knew as well that John and Flora did too. 

 

Flora Greysteel sat across from John Segundus beside her father's car. The two of them were in patches of grass and between them, there was a silver bowl Segundus had bought that day. 

He had never done this spell on his own before, but John had taught him one evening in the winter when the snow was heavy and the two of them had been secluded in the house for days with nothing to do but get used to each other. John had done the spell and showed him how to quarter the surface, the words to use. Segundus watched the surface change and gasped with the novelty of it as Childermass smiled at him and the tips of their fingers moved into the same space. 

He had done so very little magic without John there beside him. John's magic was as familiar to Segundus as his body was now and as he prepared to do the spell, he felt instinctively the absence of that magical presence near him. Flora watched as he leaned over and put his finger to the water and drew a vertical line and then a horizontal one to cross it. 

He said, after completing the spell, the name John Childermass and the words seemed to ripple the water as it accepted the name for its work.  


They both jumped when a image of that man appeared in the water, closing the door to a phone box. Flora cursed and covered her mouth with her hands. They watched him walk to his car, reaching for the keys in his pockets. He stopped for a moment and looked around, but then shook off whatever feeling had stopped him, but not before his eyes moved enough that Segundus felt Childermass looked at him. 

"I know that place," said Flora. "I've seen that storefront behind him, I'm sure."

She jumped up, nearly overturning the bowl as she did. Segundus reached out and caught it as it tottered and the man in the water wobbled. Childermass, or the vision of him, lit a cigarette and started the car. Segundus watched him for a second longer and then cleared away the spell and the water returned to normal, its surface placid and the only face in it the one of John Segundus looking down into it wistfully. 

"Come on!" said Flora. "Maybe if we hurry..." 

Segundus still sat on the ground, staring into the water that no longer showed John Childermass. 

"I'm sorry, Flora. I wasn't expecting that seeing him would make me so emotional. Only a few days separated and look at me."

"Oh, John." 

Segundus shook his head a little at himself and as though it pained him, dumped the water onto the ground and gathered the basin into his arms. 

"Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine, I think." He glanced down into the basin that had moments ago showed his lover to him and sighed at it, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'm just very relieved to see that he's alright. That it's not too late. What if it had been different? Who knows what we could have seen?"

Flora gave him a pat on the arm. 

"You're doing well. I think he would be proud of you. For searching, for the magic you did, for all of it." 

Segundus nodded and seemed after he did a little more convinced by his own agreement and stood straighter. 

"Shall we go?" asked Flora. 

"Yes," said Segundus. "Let's find him before he does himself any real harm." 

 

It was another night in the car. 

He parked when it was late enough, dark enough, and settled into the driver's seat. Before sleep, or trying for it, Childermass did what he always did at the end of the day. He brought out the mirror and he searched for Lascelles. 

This time, as the last words left his mouth, he saw in front of him, encased in darkness, the face of Henry Lascelles. And Henry Lascelles smiled at him, a smile that broke his face into to two halves with a queasy eagerness. 

"Here I am, Childermass," he said. "Here I am."

He stepped back and Childermass saw Lascelles' surroundings; a dark room, or a dark place because he could not tell if it was a room or some small building. Through the darkness he could see the walls were wood, moonlight coming in through gaps. Childermass knew it was a invitation to see Lascelles where he was, an invitation to come to him.

"You won't back down from this challenge, I think." 

Lascelles' face sported rough, pale stubble and he scratched at it while he watched where he thought Childermass would be. 

"You won't back down from this challenge, I think," he said again. "Not this time. I know your secret, John Childermass. It is you and I, or it is he and I. I know where to find him. Everyone does. John Segundus of Starecross. He will be very easy to find. You make the choice, sir." 

He laughed when he said the last word and then, he stepped from view, not even leaving the sound of his footsteps.

Childermass stared at the mirror after the face disappeared, at the gaps in the wooden wall of wherever it was that Henry Lascelles hid. Childermass thought he heard a rustle but then silence took over again. He opened up the glove compartment and threw the mirror inside when he finally was able to look away. Tomorrow, he would find Lascelles. One way or the other, this would end. 

 

Segundus was afraid to look again. 

He felt the cards pulling at him; he felt the call of seeing John again on the surface of the water. His own magic was disturbed within him, stretching as though confined. It begged him to move, to be used. It wanted to find Childermass just as every other part of him did.

Segundus paced the hotel room, holding the cards and circling the bed where the silver bowl sat, deciding to approach it or not. Segundus had been long away from home now, from John, and he ached for all of it, to go back to Starecross, to see John's face again even if in the surface of the water. But he did not know if next time he would be so lucky to have a vision of John whole and healthy. It was his greatest fear. Each time he stepped to the bowl, he stepped back again, until the time he took it in his hands and gave in to the longing he felt.  


The hotel was too quiet by far that night and sleep wouldn't come until he had seen John, he knew. His magic would not let him rest. Segundus went down the hall and he filled the basin and went back to his room and sat with it on the bed. When he finally started the spell, his relief was so great that he sighed loudly at the release of letting it go. 

Childermass was in his car, laid back in the driver's seat with his hands behind his head. There was a moment of pause and then Childermass turned his face slightly and seemed to stare straight at Segundus. 

He moved his head again; this time shaking it. He did it again and he said, "No, John." 

There was a spike in his magic at the sound of his name in Childermass' accent, and a tug at his stomach that had nothing to do with magic. 

"No, John", again. 

And then, "Go home, please." 

Childermass lit a cigarette and looked away. 

Segundus wanted to say something back, but he knew that Childermass could not see him or hear him. Childermass nodded, a movement clearly meant to say goodbye. He did not look back. Segundus broke the spell, shivering. He was not sure if John's goodbye had been not one meant to be final and the nod played itself out again again and again in Segundus' mind until tears came to his eyes. He made himself lie down in bed and remembered to pull the covers over himself. He stared at the wall until he finally slept. 

 

Childermass did the spell again the next morning and the next afternoon and evening. Each time, Lascelles let himself be seen and gave more clues to his whereabouts. He seemed to Childermass gleeful at the prospect of the meeting they would have. Lascelles' manic eagerness nearly made him turn back several times, but he thought of that energy being directed instead at John and he continued on. 

Childermass followed the lead until he came to the place. 

There was a field behind a church; grass valiantly shooting up into the cold air, a few scrappy trees making an effort to produce the first of the spring leaves.  


There was a shed set in the middle, a small wooden shed that looked like its time a thing that stood could end at any moment.  
Childermass approached it. 

When he put his hand on the door, he heard a laugh from inside and he stepped back. 

"Please," said Lascelles from inside the. "Come in." 

Childermass inched open the door and found Henry Lascelles standing inside the shed, smoking a cigarette leaned against the wall. 

His clothes had not been changed in days, that much was obvious from the wrinkles that ran up, down, and across them and from the layer of dust that covered him. His hair was slicked back from his forehead with grease from not being washed. A bit of dirt smudged his pale cheek. 

Childermass had never seen the man look like that before. He could only think how crazed Lascelles was and what fear that put into his own gut. 

"How nice to see you, John Childermass," said Lascelles. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke. 

"Lascelles."

"Mr Lascelles." 

Childermass could not stop himself from crossing his arms across his chest and rolling his eyes. 

"You met my son," said Lascelles. A bit of ash fell from his cigarette as he lifted it again to sunburned and cracked lips. 

"I did," said Childermass. 

"You shouldn't have pried." 

"Neither should you." 

Lascelles threw his cigarette on the ground and put it out with his foot. 

"You are not afraid?" 

"Of you?" asked Childermass. "No." 

"You're lying." 

Lascelles stepped forward and smiled when Childermass stepped back, giving the space put between them a long, appreciative stare. A grin spread over his face at the sight of Childermass' retreat. 

"See. You lie. And if you weren't scared of me, you would be very, very foolish not to be." 

"Would I?" 

"You do not know," said Lascelles. He was quick in grabbing the front of Childermass' jacket and he pulled him close. "You do not know what I am now."  


"I think I do. I'm only here because you threatened John Segundus. I don't want your challenge any more that I wanted the old Champion's."

"But," said Lascelles, dropping Childermass' lapel from one hand and reaching for the gun in the waist of his trousers. "You are here."

Black was all there was. 

 

Childermass had done something so that Segundus couldn't see him clearly anymore. But he could see a shed, or around the shed anyway as the vision of the actual place was fuzzed over by whatever magic kept Childermass' location obscured, and the front of Childermass' car parked somewhere nearby. 

It was Childermass' magic that made him scared, that whatever was in the shed he did not want Segundus to see. He and John had never used magic to keep things from one another, but now, John had. Segundus knew then that Childermass had found Lascelles. There was not much time now, if there was any at all. His only comfort was that the spell still stood for now and that it would not if John was gone for good. 

He ran across the hall to wake Flora. 

 

Segundus felt bad that they left without paying for the hotel rooms, but maybe, on the way back Segundus thought, they would stop and fix the problem. 

"Well, John?" asked Flora. "Is the plan to stop at every church with a shed that we see?"

"Something like that." 

"As long as we know what we're doing, then." 

Segundus could barely hold the cards in his hand and his fingers trembled when he drew one. He swore for a second that he heard John there with him, that he felt John's magic in the car, the special warmth of it, the way that though it didn't speak it had something of his accent. He had always thought that Childermass' magic felt older than his too and sensed, for seconds at a time when he touched the cards, its guiding presence. Segundus looked down at the card he had chosen. 

The House of God. 

"Every church with a shed," said Segundus. "Even the ones without." 

 

They stayed the night in the car themselves, the two of them; Flora in the backseat, Segundus in the passenger's side. The were both drawn into tight balls to ward against the cold of the spring night and Flora had Segundus' coat draped over her. 

"Try not to worry," she said. "We're moving as fast as we can." 

"I will try," he said. 

But he could not stop thinking of it; of the magic that Childermass had used to hide. Segundus knew that it was a kindness Childermass tried for, to keep him from danger, from the pain of seeing his hurt. It had been a chilly thing to look at though, this place where he knew John was but could not see him. To look at where he knew his love was and see only a blurry vision his own magic could not get through was a pain he had never thought he would feel, but it overtook him. He was John Segundus, aged thirty seven. He was a magician and he was in love and he was sleeping in a car on the side of the road on a night in spring that made him shiver because his new friend used his coat as a blanket. His life had changed so quickly in the last months that he hardly recognized himself as the same man that had woken up on the morning he had first done magic. But for all of the pain in his heart as tried to sleep, he would not be that man again, not for anything. The pain of love, like magic, was his now and he would not go back to a world where he did know it.

Segundus fell asleep with the cards of Marseilles in his hand. 

John Childermass was not sure what time of day it was. Lascelles had blocked the small window of the shed some point after subduing him. 

He thought that he had been there about a day now, but he was not sure. He might have slept, but he could not tell that either. Things went black from time to time, but that could have been sleep or unconsciousness. He only knew clearly the pain in his head from being hit, and the pain of the rope cutting into his wrists. He only knew the fear that this might not be enough to save John.

He was tied tightly, his back against a beam that ran from from the ceiling to the floor of the shed. The ropes cut into his writs and each small movement teased them again against the inflamed skin. A sharp pain dug in above his right eye, strong enough to break through the dizziness clouding him. 

Lascelles leaned down in front of him. 

"I believe you might just understand now, who is in charge," said Lascelles. Childermass said nothing back to him. 

Lascelles sat down on the ground in front of Childermass and put the gun he held in his lap. 

"This is the pistol I shot Christopher Drawlight with," he said.

"I know."

"Would you like to hear about it?"

"Not especially. I saw the mess you left." 

Lascelles smiled down at the gun. 

"And you're still not scared?" 

"I am scared, Lascelles. Are you happy to hear me say it?"

"Mr Lascelles." 

Lascelles leaned over and drew a finger down Childermass' cheek, where once the scar Lascelles had given him had run. He looked disapprovingly at the clean skin he saw there now. He scraped his fingernail against Childermass check. Childermass turned his face from Lascelles' hand with a movement that brought fresh pain to his wrist and head. Lascelles took him by the hair and turned his face back. 

"What? You'll sleep every night with that ratty school teacher but you won't let me touch you?" 

"That's about right," said Childermass. 

Henry Lascelles only smiled as he let go of Childermass' hair. 

"I should put it back. The cut on your face. Or maybe, give one to that little school teacher of yours to remember you by. You share a name. You share a bed. Why not that as well?"  


He smiled again when Childermass instinctively let his eyes search for a knife on Lascelles. 

"Maybe later," he said. "We have plenty of time." 

 

Segundus knew that he looked at the shed from his vision in the water. He recognized it by the way his stomach dropped at the sight of it and then he saw John's car. 

He had Flora drive past it at first and then park far enough away that the sound of the tires wouldn't be heard. He gripped the door handle and stared at the shed and the few yards of space that separated him from John Childermass. Or, from John Childermass' body if he was not in time. 

Segundus gave Flora the cards of Marseilles before he stepped out of the car. 

"John, please, no," she said. 

"I need you to call the police," said Segundus. "And tell them to come here quickly. Please, keep those safe for me. For us." 

Flora looked down at the cards in her hands. 

"I don't like this," she said. "Not at all."

"Well, me either," said Segundus. "But I need you, Flora. Please." 

She tucked the cards into the pocket of her dress.

"John. I haven't told you. There is-" 

She reached in the glove compartment of the car and pulled out a small pistol that she held out to Segundus. 

"It's my father's. I brought it with me. Just in case. Take it, please. I'll back as soon as I can with help, but don't let me come back to something terrible, alright?" 

The gun looked out of place in his hands, but he took it. John Segundus approached the shed. 

 

Everything was black when he heard the noise. It was the noise that made it not black anymore and Childermass opened his eyes. 

Lascelles heard it too and he stood, grabbing the gun as he did and he turned toward the door of the shed. 

John Segundus pushed the door open after several forceful knocks against it with his body. He held a gun in his hand too, a gun in his shaking hands and after surveying the scene quickly, seeing Childermass tied with a line of dried blood running down his forehead, he pointed it hesitantly at Lascelles. 

"Well, John Childermass," said Lascelles. "If it isn't your knight in shining armor. Or, in a threadbare jacket." 

"John," said Childermass. He hadn't drank since he came here and his throat was parched, his words dusty. "Leave. Please." 

"No," said Lascelles. "Stay. You can watch what I do to him and then, I might have something for you too." 

He did not take his eyes from John Segundus, who looked in turn between him and Childermass. Childermass was too weak to struggle against his constraints or to do more than plead as best he could with Segundus to leave. 

Segundus kept the pistol in his hands pointed at Lascelles. It was a small gun, light, but Segundus held it like it weighed on him. Lascelles pointed his own gun at Segundus until he, grinning, turned it and then himself toward Childermass. That was when John Segundus shot Henry Lascelles in the leg and brought him to the ground with a scream and a spreading of red into the dust and dirt. The gun was small, but the shock of using made Segundus fall back against the door, his feet scrambling for purchase. He stared at the dark, wet spot on Lascelles trouser leg, the blood running through his fingers and pooling on the ground. Lascelles tried to stand and nearly did. Segundus righted himself with a push forward and shot Lascelles in the foot. 

The noise of the gun firing for the second time dissolved into the air and then it was gone, but Lascelles still screamed. Segundus ran past Lascelles toward Childermass and untied him. Segundus dropped the ropes to the floor and put an arm around Childermass and helped him to his feet. His legs were weak after so many hours of being folded on the ground and John Childermass collapsed against Segundus, who do not let him fall. 

 

The police came soon after, with Flora Greysteel. 

Henry Lascelles lay on the ground, clutching his leg and screaming curses as he tried to crawl toward the other men and pull himself up. Childermass stood off to the side, supported by Segundus. Two officers pulled Lascelles to his feet, or his foot as he could only stand on one of them. and handcuffed him as he spat and writhed. 

"Well, nice to see the two of you again, and both of you in more or less one piece, I see." said Flora as she approached the men named John. She took the cards of Marseilles from her dress pocket and handed them to Childermass. "Mr Childermass." 

"Miss Greysteel." 

One of the police officers looked up at the sound of her name, clearly recognizing it and her from the papers, and Flora groaned a little, but once she scowled at the officer, he turned away with a blush. 

It was a long day of questioning in the police station. Statements were taken. Segundus was questioned and quickly released following his confession of shooting Henry Lascelles twice. Flora waited with them on the hard benches on the police station for all the hours they were there. 

It was late afternoon when they stepped out from the station and went to Dr Greysteel's car. Segundus lay Childermass down in the backseat and sat next to Flora in the front. 

"Should we take him to hospital, do you think?" asked Flora. 

" I can hear you," said Childermass without opening his eyes. "And the answer is no." 

Then, after a short drive, it was a last hotel, a last set of two rooms for men who wanted to be together in one. The wait for the quiet was too long, Segundus thought. John's dirty face, the dried blood from being knocked over the head with the handle of Lascelles' gun, the rope burns on his wrist; they all worried at him as he sat, for the last time, on a too small bed in a room not his own, and let time pass. Segundus had settled John in his room as best he could when they arrived and was then forced to leave him for a while. Thankfully, he had been asleep by then, though it appeared to Segundus a fitful sleep. Segundus had been here in own room since, thinking of nothing but returning to John. 

And then finally, it was time. 

When Segundus went to him, John was awake, laying on his back and looking at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke for a time after the door shut. They watched each other and they listened for noises in the hall that did not come. They were safe. Childermass turned his head. 

"Are you mad at me?" he asked. "For risking my life like that?" 

"Of course. But I'm more relieved to be here with you. I was so scared..." 

He went to the bed and he sat on it next to Childermass. Segundus took one of Childermass' hands, careful of the raw skin at the wrist rubbed away by the rope he'd been held with. He had washed John's wrists earlier, but they were still red. 

"Well, John," said Childermass. 

"John," said Segundus. 

" Have you forgiven me for leaving you like that?"

Segundus sighed. 

"Your face is still dirty," he said. He looked around but there was nothing in the room to use to clean it. There was a glass of water by the bed though and he poured a bit of the water onto his sleeve and wiped way the worst of the dirt. His hand still shook from having handled and used a gun earlier. Childermass studied the movement of Segundus' hand against his face, the fear still left over from the afternoon. Segundus lay down on the bed and took John Childermas into his arms. 

"Thank you," said Childermass. And he buried his face in Segundus' neck. Days in the car and walking around outside had made him pink and over warm. Childermass set to learning his sunburn. 

"What else would have expected me to do?"

"Nothing. And that's why I thanked you."

Despite only being apart for a few days, there was the joy or remembering each other; the joy of a touch that brought recognition with it. The relief each had at the remembering. Yes, each thought. That is he. That is what he feels like against me. That is how his skin smells. 

The shivering started then, and Segundus kissed Childermass' hair and gripped him tighter. Childermass still smelled of the dirt of the shed and somewhat like blood. The undressing started almost by accident, with fingers yearning for what they had missed. Kisses followed the fingers. And then, there were bare chests, Childermass' shirt on the floor. Segundus kissed Childermass as he continuted to work at undressing him and studied him for bruises that were blessedly few. Then hips, pressed together. Childermass had not moved from his place on the bed and Segundus was above him, taking the charge of the positioning their bodies.

"Oh John, are you sure?" Segundus asked. 

They knew the risks, being still away from home, but they continued quietly, lost to everything but each other. 

Then it was Childermass gripping his love as Segundus moved him into place and he sighed when their bodies met. 

Neither man did it intentionally, but Childermass was undressed first, Segundus above him with his legs on either side. Segundus' shirt was undone and his trousers loose around his hips, belt undone and and the buckle pressed into Childermass' stomach as Segundus leaned over him. 

Neither man did it intentionally, but they both stopped kissing and opened their eyes at the same time to look at each other.

"John? Are you alright?" 

"I am," said Childermass. 

Segundus lowered himself from on top of the other man's body and lay down next to Childermass, his arms around him. He looked up and studied the cut above Childermass' right eye. There was so much new to learn of his body after only a few days. 

"We can wait. This can wait," said Segundus. "There's home to look forward to now."

Childermass made an ambiguous noise at the back of his throat instead of responding. Segundus put a hand on his chest. It was the hand he used to hold the gun earlier but it no longer shook as much. Childermass still watched it. 

"I thought of you, when I was there," he said. 

Childermass held the back of Segundus' neck, his fingers at the hairline. He closed his eyes again. 

"I thought I'd seen you for the last time at the Greysteel's. I knew I'd left you mad at me, but I hoped you'd understand, in time." 

"Oh John." Segundus kissed Childermass' chest and shoulder. "I wish I'd gotten to you sooner." 

Segundus rubbed Childermass' side and kissed him until his body relaxed again. Childermass reached up and slide Segundus' trousers down his hips and Segundus pulled them rest of the way off and left them on the end of the bed. His shirt drooped off his shoulders and he shrugged it off and then lay back against Childermass on his side. He touched his nose to Childermass' jawline and then his lips and then kissed him on the mouth. 

Childermass hooked one of his legs around Segundus' and Segundus reached between their bodies and took Childermass into his hand. He felt a bit like a foolish boy that his breath still caught at the feeling of it, at the hardness and the warmth pressed against his palm. Childermass' mouth opened in pleasure as Segundus moved his hand along his length and his leg coiled tighter around Segundus as his fingers dug into Segundus' shoulder. Segundus only let go to move on top of Childermass again and position his legs spread father apart. Childermass held his breath to keep from a loud sigh as Segundus' fingers began to do other exploring inside of him, a tentative finger at a time. Segundus covered Childermass' mouth with his own as small spasm of pleasure went though him. 

"John..." said Segundus. He pressed his face into Childermass' neck and let his fingers slide out. Childermass panted weakly underneath him and gripped at Segundus' back. Segundus' mouth dropped open in momentary surprise at the feel, when his hand bushed between Childermass' legs, of how hard his was. 

"Yes?" 

Instead of speaking, he took Childermass by the hips and gently rolled him over. There was no protest, but he paused briefly, studying the body he approached. Childermass buried his face in the pillow and gripped the sheets as Segundus kissed down his back and his buttocks and then his thighs as he spread them further apart. He thought for a moment of asking if Segundus was certain he wanted to do this, but he was lost in the feeling of Segundus' lipson him and then, Segundus spread him open and all Childermass felt was Segundus' tongue inside of him. It was a halting act at first as Segundus got used what he did, to his own movements and to Childermass' under him. Each noise of pleasure Childermass made jolted him, both with pleasure for himself and with surprise. Childermass called out into the pillow and Segundus held him at the hips as Childermass moved slightly into into the motion and then against the sheets. Segundus paused after several minutes and rested his cheek against the small of Childermass; back. 

"You don't have to-" said Childermass. 

"Oh, I know. It's just-" 

Childermass could not see him blushing but he knew that Segundus was.

"I've never..."

"I know," said Childermass. He rolled over and Segundus moved to put his head on his chest. They lay like that for several moments before meeting eyes. Childermass reached and put a hand on top of Segundus' head and first, he sighed, but then, when his chest was empty of air, he smiled a tired smile at Segundus. Segundus sat up and moved to where he was on top of Childermass again. This transition, their bodies hot and ready, was easy. 

He began to move them into the act, a slow progression into lovemaking. Segundus put all of the relief he felt at having John back into the love they made. And he felt in return John's at at having him there. 

 

Starecross was quiet when they returned the next day. 

Segundus drew a bath for them after dinner though they had bathed in the hotel that morning, separately, in their different rooms.  
They took time washing each other's backs and hair and then, took their time drying each other off, and they returned to their bed. 

It was a night of peaceful rest, a return home for two men who had missed it and each other.

 

In London, a young woman stood in the middle of a cheap apartment and she cried at what she saw and at what she didn't see. There was a couch supported on one side by a bit of cardboard lodged under a wobbly leg. There was, on the self above the sink, a tea cup missing a handle and next to it, a small yellow plate from a different set. A few photos from magazines were tacked up and taped to the walls, of actors and actresses in glamorous clothes. There was, however, no indication that her brother had ever known a moment of peace or love here. Her husband took her hand. 

"It's alright, Marianne," he said. 

She had a little pocket book and she opened it and took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. 

"I didn't know it was this bad," she said. "Poor Chris." 

They were there to pack away his things and clear the place for the next tenant. It would, it seemed, be a small job. 

"What are we going to do with all of it?" she asked. 

Marianne's husband waited before responding. 

"We'll likely need to chuck them, love. No one will be able to get much more life from these things." 

"Oh, you're right. Let's take one look around though." 

It didn't take them long to sort through the clothes and the few knickknacks and the contents of Christopher Drawlight's desk. Marianne left with a journal and a small photo she found hidden in the back of one of the desk's drawers; a cracking and much faded black and white photo of a handsome man she didn't know. The man in the picture was nothing to her, but her brother had kept it for a long time, she could tell, and she wouldn't let it be thrown out. There was a small picture of their mother, framed on the windowsill that she took as well, one of her and Christopher before she had remarried, the two of them and no one else.

At home, she put away the things she brought from her brother's flat and she sat at her kitchen table with a pen and paper. There were letters to write. She wanted to thank John Childermass for what he had done for her and her brother, and his friend as well, who had come with him a few days ago to tell them that it was done, that her brother's murderer was brought to justice. There was another man she had things she wanted to say to, but she would not. Henry Lascelles was in a jail cell now and what had gotten him there could not be taken back. 

Marianne wrote her letter to the two men named John and went to bed.She thought that tomorrow, if she was up to it, she might begin to read her brother's journal and find out who he really was after all.


End file.
